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MORRY 


4 







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MORRY 

The Portrait of a Lawyer 


BY 

ROBERT ELSON 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 






Copyright 1924 

By Small, Maynard & Company 
(Incorporated) 


* . 
«»• 


Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY TRUSTING COMTANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS, 

THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 



j 


© Cl A S 0 7 2 4 4 • 




The Author Dedicates This Book To 

The Right Honourable Sir John Simon, K. C., 
M. P., K. C. V. 0.; Fellow of All Souls, Oxford; ex- 
Attorney-General and ex-Home Secretary for Eng¬ 
land: and his oldest friend. 


AUTHOR’S NOTE 

Nothing in this book is intended to reflect unfa¬ 
vourably on any actual person, living or dead; if 
people choose to try ugly caps on their own heads or 
others’, and to think that the cap fits, the author dis¬ 
claims having intentionally made them to do so. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB 

I. 

Random Memories . 




PACK 

3 

II. 

No Fool Like- . 




8 

III. 

The Headlight . 




15 

IV. 

The Gears Pick Up . 




54 

V. 

The Orange Spark . 




67 

VI. 

Guilty, or Not Guilty? . 




91 

VII. 

K.C., M.P. 




140 

VIII. 

A Woman-Trap 




143 

IX. 

Glimpses .... 




168 

X. 

The Story of the Chateau Heritage 



172 

XI. 

Transplanted 




231 

XII. 

A Law Officer of the Crown 




234 

XIII. 

The Law of England 




238 

XIV. 

The Secret of the Dusk . 




305 

XV. 

Three of a Kind 




362 

XVI. 

Epilogue .... 




370 














MORRY 


# 













MORRY 


CHAPTER I 
Random Memories 

I remember gazing round the Abramsons’ draw¬ 
ing-room in awed surprise: everything seemed either 
bright-coloured or shiny, and Mrs. Abramson like a 
large bird of brilliant plumage. She wore a violet 
satin dress with puff-sleeves gored and ruched, the 
skirt made full and flounced; and a cap of white lace 
on a pink satin foundation: these being in the newest 
fashion. My mother was wearing her calling gown, 
which she had had for several years, a puce poplin, 
cut to the figure, with tight sleeves, and made plain; 
and a small black bonnet, with a cream lace fall. I 
wore a black-and-red-checked flannel frock, white 
socks with black bars, ankle-strap shoes, and a black 
velvet tam-o’-shanter with a cairngorm brooch and a 
feather at one side — this being the kind of costume 
worn by little boys when I was three. 

I owe these particulars to my mother’s recollection. 
I only remember, dimly, that there was a marked con¬ 
trast between her and Mrs. Abramson (Mrs. Abram¬ 
son was stout, and my mother slim and elegant); also 
that Mrs. Abramson had a loud voice and a hearty 
laugh (my mother’s tones were always modulated). 
I cannot be sure whether it was then, or later, that I 
noticed the rolls of fat at the back of Mrs. Abramson’s 
3 


4 


MORRY 


neck and the slight moustache which darkened her 
upper lip. 

The ostensible reason for our call was to see how 
the baby was getting on; really, it was a duty call. 
The duties of a rector’s wife were extended in my 
mother’s case by my father’s large-mindedness. The 
Abramsons were business Londoners who had in¬ 
vaded our sleepy Hertfordshire village, and Jews; 
that made no difference in my father’s eyes; they 
lived in the parish, therefore my mother must call. 
So my mother called — when she could not get out 
of it. 

The baby was brought down in his nurse’s arms for 
us to admire. I was told his name was Morris. My 
mother duly admired him; I peered from a respectful 
distance. He looked like a starfish — all noses. 

“ You needn’t be afraid of dear little Morry,” said 
Mrs. Abramson. 66 He won’t bite you.” 

I went closer. I bent over dear little Morry, and 
Morry shoved his fist in my eye, and- 

And it must be supposed that we took a fancy to 
each other. 

As soon as Morry could toddle, he was brought to 
play in our garden. Sometimes I went to play in 
their garden. Mr. Abramson, a kindly father, had 
provided his children with a sandpit; I built castles of 
sand, and then allowed Morry to kick them to pieces. 
He used to shriek like an Indian while he did so, but 
with a grave face. Morry’s gravity was remarkable 
from childhood. He rarely smiled; he beamed in¬ 
stead, in a peculiar fashion of his own: he never 
laughed. 



RANDOM MEMORIES 


5 


About the age of seven I learned something of the 
history of my family, and became inordinately con¬ 
ceited over it. I announced to Morry, one day when 
he came to play with me, that I was a descendant of 
Saxon Kings. 

44 You must take the oath of allegiance. Say after 
me ” — I have no idea where this rigmarole came 
from — 44 4 1 take you as my liege lord, and will true 
faith and allegiance bear, in no wise to oppose or 
hinder your designs, and to be your faithful and lov¬ 
ing subject as long as I shall live.’ ” 

Morry said it. He looked up at me while he did so. 
I suppose he almost worshipped me in those days. 

I think that was before Nesta joined us. Her 
parents died, and my father adopted her. I renamed 
her 44 Cockles.” She was a little younger than Morry, 
and small for her years, with the tiniest hands and 
feet imaginable, dry sandy hair, green eyes, and a hot 
temper. We became a trio. 

Our favourite game was playing trains. Up and 
down the long straight paths in the kitchen-garden we 
trotted tirelessly, puffing and whistling and blowing 
off steam. Later there were signals, connected to 
levers in a potting-shed. Later still, we acquired a 
telegraph set — one instrument was installed in the 
potting-shed and the other in the harness-room. Morry 
and I played traffic-manager and signalman alter¬ 
nately, while Nesta acted as train. When she required 
a rest, we allowed her to enter one of the offices and 
dictate a message to be transmitted to the other. 

Nesta liked this because it gave her a chance to 
insult us with impunity. Thus, when Morry was 


6 


MORRY 


sender, she would dictate for my benefit some such 
message as: 66 Hallo, Beanpole, how are the beans do¬ 
ing with the wire brush on top ” — a general allusion 
to my lankiness and sticky-up hair which was not in¬ 
tended to convey the idea that the imaginary beans 
found my mop in their way: she had a trick of jumb¬ 
ling her sentences. When Morry was at the receiving 
end he would get: “ Hallo pudding face with two cur¬ 
rants; they must have been expensive” — meaning 
that the price of currants was high when his face was 
made, not that his eyes particularly had been costly. 
Her nickname for him was “ Plumduff,” afterwards 
reduced to the last syllable. 

Riddles and puzzles were a form of social diver¬ 
sion in those days, and my father was fond of putting 
to us such problems as: “What is the price of eggs 
when two more for a shilling would mean a penny less 
per dozen?” Morry, by the time he was eleven, could 
solve almost any of these problems. At my prepara¬ 
tory school I learned to guy them; at the end of my 
first term I brought home a cod puzzle. It was: “Mary 
looked at the portrait of a man and said, ‘ That man’s 
father was my father, and his mother was my mother, 
yet we are not brother and sister.’ What was Mary?” 

My father was angry when he was sold over this. 
Morry came to tea. I put it to him. He was sitting 
by Nesta, who, during my absence at school, had 
replaced me as his companion. She watched him 
eagerly while he reflected; I can see them now — 
Morry with his parrot’s beak and beady eyes, the 
broad smooth forehead unwrinkled, the indetermi¬ 
nately-coloured eyebrows unknitted; and her little 


RANDOM MEMORIES 


7 


bright face, the green eyes bent on him adoringly. 

Morry gave judgment. “I should say she was not 
speaking the truth.” 

The prescribed answer was 66 A liar.” 

In Morry’s thirteenth year his father was made 
bankrupt, and the family left Mirfield. 

Two years later, I went to stay for a few days with 
the Abramsons at Brixton. The house was small, and 
there were ten people living in it. The two elder boys, 
Dan and Joe, were grown up and went to business; 
Jessie, the eldest girl, was a teacher; but Mr. Abram¬ 
son was not prospering as a commission agent, and 
the housework had to be done by Mrs. Abramson, 
Jessie, and Sarah, who had appeared in the world 
next before Morry. There were three younger chil¬ 
dren. Mrs. Abramson was unfailingly jolly despite 
her trials and her increasing stoutness, which made it 
difficult for her to get about; Sarah had a genius for 
management, and Jess did not grumble at having to 
get up early in the holidays; she was working for an 
examination in every spare moment. They were all 
very kind to me; but the house was overcrowded, 
noisy, and, as I thought, their way of living was 
messy. No doubt, I was something of a snob. Morry 
had not changed much, or if he had, I did not notice 
it. He was still my playmate. 


CHAPTER II 


No Fool Like- 

I WAS eighteen, in the sixth and a prefect at my 
public school, when Morry came to Mirfield again. 
He seemed to me a very suburban London youth 
indeed; naturally, he had acquired manners and 
standards of conduct at his day-school which were 
different from mine. Also, he was a swot—he 
actually thought school work important! I must have 
betrayed my sense of superiority, for Nesta took me 
to task. 

“Who are you to look at Duff and speak to him like 
that? He has more brains than you have!” 

I put on my loftiest air. “Very likely. But there 
are a number of things he does not know.” 

“ What?” 

“What is good form and what isn’t, for one thing.” 

“Good form!” exclaimed Nesta scornfully. “Pah!” 

I seized her by the arm. “Cheeky kid!” 

“Let me go, Dick.” 

“Not till you apologise.” 

“Do you really want me to apologise?” Nesta 
put her head on one side and smiled sweetly into my 
face. 

I suddenly became aware that although Nesta had 
not grown up much, she had grown into a pretty girl. 
I had continued to look on her as plain—that is to 
say, I had never thought about her looks. But the 
gentleman of the sixth is at the waking-up point. 1 
woke up. 


8 




9 


NO FOOL LIKE- 

Her green eyes had sparkles in them. Her cheeks 
were rosy, her skin like alabaster. Her bow of a 
mouth was richly red, her sleek hair a beautiful 
golden brown. 

I let her go. 

After that I was jealous of Morry because he was 
on such good terms with her. They went for walks 
together; I was with them, but they were walking 
together. They danced together, and Nesta smiled 
up at Morry with her head tilted; I knew somehow 
that she would only do that to someone she liked 
very much. Moreover, she took pains with Morry: 
my shaft about good form had gone home. 

I tackled her as to this. “I notice you don’t take 
any trouble over me.” 

“Oh, you! You are Mr. Know-All. No one could 
teach you anything.” 

“There is one thing you might teach me, Cockles.” 
“What?” 

“How to make you like me better.” 

Her green eyes glinted mischievously. “Sir,” she 
said, “if you cannot find that out for yourself, no 
one can teach you.” Which I have since found to be 
true—not only in regard to Nesta. 

I decided to let Morry know that I was in love with 
her. Then, if he were too—as I rather hoped—we 
could agree to be honourable rivals in accordance 
with tradition. Imbued by this romantic nonsense, I 
invited him to go for a walk with me alone. While I 
was revolving how to put what I had to say, Morry 
remarked: 

“You are for Oxford, I suppose?” 



10 


MORRY 


I said I was going up to Christ Church next year. 
“Are you likely to be coming up?” I knew that his 
father could not afford to send him to a university, 
but it seemed polite to ask. 

“No. I intend to try for a school in London.” 

London was not a university in my eyes. 

“You see, Dick,” Morry went on, “there is no 
money to spare. I ought to go to business and earn 
something. But I want to be a barrister.” 

“Oh? That is rather expensive.” 

“Yes. I must manage as cheaply as I can. If I 
take honours, I might be able to get into Montagu’s 
chambers. He is a friend of one of my uncles, and I 
think he would give me a chance.” 

Montagu was a well-known barrister. I became 
interested. 

“Couldn’t you manage Cambridge?” Cambridge 
was, in my eyes, a mere second best to Oxford; but 
still, it was a second best. 

“I don’t think so. I must live at home. It is rather 
hard on the old man anyhow, because he can only 
just make ends meet as it is. Jessie is married, so 
we have lost her contribution to the expenses. But 
Dan is getting on splendidly, and Joe is doing better 
now; they are quite willing for me to have a shot 
at the bar.” 

“Good sports!” said I carelessly, and then found 
myself realising the difference between Morry and 
myself as to opportunities. It came to me with a 
shock that much on which I prided myself was merely 
the result of that difference. If it had been my father 
who got into difficulties instead of Mr. Abramson— 


NO FOOL LIKE 


11 


The result was that I did not tell Morry about my 
passion, because it seemed as if it would be taking an 
unfair advantage. I decided instead to watch him 
and Nesta while discreetly pursuing my own court¬ 
ship, and if I came to the conclusion that she pre¬ 
ferred him, to retire and nurse my wounded heart in 
silence. It is difficult now to be serious over it; but 
I was desperately in earnest then. 

I wrote to Nesta regularly after I went back to 
school, and, while not daring to make my letters into 
love letters, contrived to slip in a little something 
here and there which would give her a handle if she 
wished to respond. Nesta did not respond, and after 
I went to Oxford I forgot that I was in love with her. 
I do not remember what—or who—was responsible 
for this. 

My mother died, and I became independent of my 
father to the extent of four hundred pounds a year. 
I decided for the diplomatic service. A couple of 
years later my father also passed into the silence, and 
when his affairs were investigated a curious situation 
arose. He had not been as well off as we supposed, 
and had never made a new will since he adopted 
Nesta, who had no money of her own. We tried to 
keep this from her; she was told that she would 
share equally with us; but when she learned how 
much her share would be, she refused it. 

“If that’s all you are going to get, I won’t touch a 
penny, it’s not much.” 

We represented to her that we had our mother’s 
money. 

“That has nothing to do with it.” 



12 MORRY 

She was informed that she would have to take her 
legacy. 

“Why? What does the will say?” 

This was an awkward point to deal with, and I 
suppose we bungled it, because in the end Nesta dis¬ 
covered that she was not mentioned in the will at 
all. Then, nothing would move her. 

“Uncle Alwyn took me in when I was left penni¬ 
less, brought me up and educated me, gave me a 
dress allowance the same as you”—this was directed 
to my sisters—“I can earn my own living, isn’t that 
enough?” 

We protested. 

“If you try to force me, I shall go abroad, I won’t 
have it.” 

I was deputed to persuade her. 

“Do be reasonable. Cockles,” I said as we walked 
in the dear old garden, soon to be surrendered to a 
stranger. “If you don’t take it from us, Aunt Betsey 
is sure to insist on allowing you something.” 

Nesta’s paternal grandfather and mine were 
brothers; their father married again when they were 
grown up, and Aunt Betsey was their half-sister. She 
married Henry, fourth earl of Wrenford and seven¬ 
teenth baron Youatt of Markhamsted, who was 
reckoned the head of the family, although belonging 
to a younger branch. Uncle Henry had died some 
years before, but Aunt Betsey still had Markhamsted 
by arrangement with his nephew Tom, who had suc¬ 
ceeded him, Tom being a drunken waster who pre¬ 
ferred cash to responsibilities. Nesta was going to 
stay with her. 


13 


NO FOOL LIKE 

“She could afford it, but I shan’t take it from her 
either, you can’t. Don’t you believe I can earn my 
living?” 

“I am sure you can. But suppose you get into a 
bad place? If you are dependent on your salary, 
you will be afraid to break away. Whereas if you 
had funds to draw upon, you could leave and try 
for something better.” 

Nesta was not impressed by this businesslike argu¬ 
ment. I went on until she stopped me with: 

“It’s no use, Dick, you are all three perfect dears, I 
have made up my mind about it.” 

She had linked her arm in mine as we strolled. 
Now she squeezed it, and looked up at me with 
glistening eyes. The fiction that I was in love with 
her came back. I fancy that I had as well a con¬ 
fused idea of acting nobly to save her from what 
was in those days a perilous experiment. 

“Then—will you marry me?” 

We stood still, facing each other. Nesta stared. 

“Oh, Dick, are you really in love with me, what a 
darling you are, I wish you weren’t.” 

I said I was—in love with her, not a darling; I 
think I swore it. Her eyes grew very tender; she 
was wise enough to guess the truth. I mistook the 
meaning of the look, and, with a quickly-beating 
heart, tried to draw her to me. She put out her 
little hand to ward me off. 

“I couldn’t,” she said definitely. “Don’t you 
know why?” I didn’t. 

“Because—oh, surely you must have seen.” 

“Is it—Morry?” 



14 


MORRY 


Her breast heaved, she flushed, and tears came 
into her eyes. “You won’t give me away, will you? 
I should never have told you but for what you said 
just now.” 

Another young man might have been excused; 
Nesta, at nineteen, was bewitching enough to make 
a fellow lose his head. The epithet oftenest applied 
to her, “fairylike,” did not really fit; Meredith’s 
“dainty rogue in porcelain” came nearer; but Nesta’s 
elfishness and roguishness were only superficial, and 
there was nothing she resembled less than a china 
figure. She was wholly human and warmly affec¬ 
tionate, with a temper-jet like a salt flame to keep 
her lovingness wholesome and sweet. Just because 
her affection for me had always been frankly ex¬ 
pressed in look and tone and deed, I knew that she 
regarded me as a dear brother. I knew, too, in my 
heart, that I did not love her in the sex sense. There 
was no excuse for me. 

The recollection of that evening scorches me when¬ 
ever it recurs. I may plead, now, that nothing is more 
difficult for youth than to be certain of the genuine¬ 
ness of its emotions. 


CHAPTER III 


The Headlight 

I WAS in England on leave, spending the last week 
of it at a country-house near Redminster. I cycled 
into the town one afternoon, and met Morry in the 
High Street. He had been at the bar for some con¬ 
siderable time then. 

I dismounted. “What’s brought you here?” 

“The assizes begin to-morrow, and I have a case 
for the Crown.” 

“You must be getting on.” 

“Not so badly. What are you doing in these 
parts?” 

“Staying with the Cavershams.” 

“Ah.” Morry had developed a legal manner. 
“Have you anything special to do this afternoon and 
evening?” 

“No.” 

“Then let us take a walk, and we will eat together.” 

We left the town, exchanging news. 

“Cockles is at Montpellier,” I remarked in the most 
casual tone I could assume. “She is companion to 
an old lady, a school friend of my mother’s.” 

“Yes. She wrote to me soon after she went.” 

So they corresponded. I was glad to hear that. 

“Do you know about the trouble we had with her 
after my father died?” 

“No.” 


15 


16 


MORRY 


I told him. “We persuaded her in the end to take 
something.” (That was an accidental result of my 
lunacy: Nesta had consented to a compromise.) 

“She is very fond of all of you,” said Morry. 

I tried to be artful. “She might marry, and it 
makes such a difference to a girl then if she has 
something of her own, even if it is only a little.” 

Morry looked at me as if he were uncertain what 
I had in my mind. “Have you been making plans 
in connection with her?” 

“Yes, to some extent—that is to say, it has occurred 
to me—but I wasn’t sure about you.” 

I do not recollect that there was a pause, but there 
may have been, before Morry said in a grave tone: 
“It will be years before I am in a position to marry, 
Dick.” 

So he did care for her. I wondered whether he 
had told her so. 

“You see,” he went on, “a good deal of responsi¬ 
bility has fallen on my shoulders. There are five of 
us still at home: my father and mother, Sarah, my¬ 
self, and Matt. I am the only one who earns any¬ 
thing. My father potters about the city, but he only 
makes his expenses. Dan is very good; he has 
assisted me until lately. But he has three children 
now, and it would not be right for me to allow him 
to do so any longer.” 

“What about Joe?” 

“Joe has not made a success. He goes from one 
thing to another. He, too, is married, and it is as 
much as he can do to keep himself and his wife and 
child—more, sometimes. I owe them both a debt, 


THE HEADLIGHT 


17 


Dick, and I owe Sarah a debt, too. She might have 
married years ago—at least, there was a project to 
that effect; but the man wanted something with her; 
and my father could not give it and at the same time 
find the money for me to train for the bar. Judith has 
secured a good post—she is teaching—but there is 
Ben at Cambridge. He won a scholarship, but, of 
course, he has to be helped. Matt is still at school. 
He must have his chance. So, you see, marriage is 
beyond my horizon.” 

I acquired a new respect for Morry. I said: “I 
am very glad you have told me this.” 

“Ah.” He began to talk about his professional 
prospects. “I am in Montagu’s chambers. Did you 
know that? He has been very kind to me. It is 
owing to him that I am here now for the Crown. The 
case is one of murder and robbery, and has points 
of interest. The crime occurred seven miles from 
here, at a village called Frey. I thought I would go 
and have a look at the place this afternoon. Have 
you any objection?” 

I said I had not. “Tell me about the case.” 

“Have you ever been to Frey?” 

“No.” 

“The situation of it is peculiar, and the peculiarity 
is of some importance. It occupies the head of a 
peninsula made by the river, and the neck of the 
peninsula is taken up by Frey Park. The road to 
Frey runs through the middle of the park, each half 
of which is surrounded by a high wall; and on the 
river-hanks, at each side, the park walls go sheer into 
the water. The consequence is that there is only one 


18 


MORRY 


way to get to Frey by land—along the road. There 
is a ferry, by which one may cross the river in the 
daytime, but I don’t think that has any bearing on 
the case. 

“The crime was committed during the night of the 
twenty-sixth-twenty-seventh October. lhe victim, Mrs. 
Sutlin, was a widow. She lived alone in a semi¬ 
detached house on the west side of the village: the 
adjoining house had been vacated in September. 
There is a garden abutting on the river-bank. The 
prisoner, John Jafes, lived with his wife and his 
wife’s sister in a cottage on the other side of the 
village; his garden also goes down to the river-bank. 
He had no regular occupation. He depended on his 
garden, his bees, and odd-job work; his wife keeps 
fowls. In previous years they managed to pay their 
way, but last season everything went wrong. Jafes 
earned very little, the garden did badly, there was 
little honey, and most of the chickens died.” 

“Poor devils! Couldn’t they get help?” 

“I gather that Jafes was unwilling to accept help. 
He seems to be an independent person. Mrs. Sutlin 
was seen alive on the afternoon of Thursday the 
twenty-sixth, about half-past five. Probably she was 
alive until after ten o’clock; her light was visible until 
then. The night was a stormy one. Rain began soon 
after eight, and became heavy an hour or so later, 
lasting through the night. The next morning, at half¬ 
past nine, a neighbour, a Mrs. Bone, went to the 
front door. Receiving no answer to her knocks, she 
opened the door and went in.” 

“Wasn’t the door locked?” 


THE HEADLIGHT 


19 


“No. It had a trick latch. Presumably Mrs. Sutlin 
thought that a sufficient protection. Mrs. Bone went 
into the kitchen: seeing that Mrs. Sutlin had not been 
down, she went upstairs to find out if she were ill. 
She found the body half in and half out of bed. 
There was a gaping hole in the side of the head, a 
sort of deep double cut, which had bled profusely.” 

“What a horrible sight to come on unexpectedly!” 

“Yes. The room contained a nest of drawers, a 
stout piece of furniture made of oak. The front 
of the bottom drawer had been smashed in, the drawer 
was pulled out, and on the floor lay a japanned iron 
cash-box which had been pried open. The cash-box 
was empty. 

“After ascertaining that Mrs. Sutlin was dead— 
the body was cold and stiff—Mrs. Bone went to the 
post-office, and the postmistress called up Stag’s Head, 
asking for the policeman to come. The constable at 
Stag’s Head telephoned to Redminster for the inspec¬ 
tor and a doctor, and then went to Frey. He looked 
at the kitchen window, and saw that it had been 
forced. He also noticed that the back gate was open. 
There is a special significance in both details which 
I will explain presently. By this time a crowd had 
gathered, and the constable was told that Mrs. Jafes 
had been to the village shop that morning and changed 
a sovereign. He thought this deserved inquiry, and 
went to the cottage. The door was opened by Mrs. 
Jafes; Jafes was sitting at the table, smoking; Mary 
Faith, his sister-in-law, was in bed.” 

“ In the same room?” 

“Yes—there is only one, a lean-to scullery. On 


20 


MORRY 


the table were the remains of a meal consisting of 
bacon, bread, butter, and tea.” 

“Chops and tomato sauce, Morry. Also the warm¬ 
ing pan.” 

“What?” 

“Vide ‘Pickwick.’ You recited the breakfast menu 
as if it imported criminality.” 

“I am quoting the constable. The details have a 
certain significance.” 

“I apologise.” 

“The constable said: ‘Where did the spread come 
from Jafes?’ Jafes replied that it came from the 
shop. The constable said: ‘But you were owing 
money at the shop, weren’t you?’ and Jafes flared out 
at him. The constable asked Mrs. Jafes where she 
had got the money from which to pay for the things 
she had bought that morning. Jafes said he gave it 
to her. Where did he get it from? He told the con¬ 
stable to mind his own adjectived business, and go.” 

“Did the bobby tell him about the murder?” 

“No.” 

“Then is this evidence?” 

“Some of it. But Jafes had not been warned. 
The constable reported his discoveries to the inspector. 
The inspector made a careful examination of the bed¬ 
room, and found in the edges of the cuts in the drawer- 
front traces of blood, and even minute portions of 
brain matter. He also found a towel lying on the 
floor, crumpled but otherwise clean. It had been 
taken by the murderer from the drawer, presumably 
for the purpose of avoiding finger marks on the cash- 
box while he pried it open; at any rate, a micro- 


THE HEADLIGHT 


21 


scopical examination made subsequently showed no 
traces of finger marks on the japanned surface, which 
was admirably adapted to receive them.” 

“That looks as if the murderer were a person of 
intelligence.” 

“It does. But the prisoner is not, according to 
what I am told.” 

“He may have read something about finger marks 
leading to detection, and taken precautions in con¬ 
sequence.” 

“That might account for it. No other positive 
indications were gathered on the premise^. But there 
were negative indications of value. There was no 
sign that anything had been taken except the con¬ 
tents of the cash-box. Apparently, on entering the 
house, the burglar had gone straight through the 
kitchen into the hall and upstairs to the bedroom used 
by Mrs. Sutlin; and when he had finished his work, 
straight out again. Nothing in any other part of the 
house had been disturbed, and the bedroom had not 
been searched. Mrs. Sutlin’s clothes were lying 
neatly folded on a chair, as it may be supposed she 
left them. There was a small sum of money in the 
skirt pocket. Articles of jewellery lay on the dress¬ 
ing-table—a gold watch, worth two or three pounds; 
a gold brooch, worth about thirty shillings; and a 
rolled-gold bracelet of the same value. Everything 
had been ignored except the money in the cash-box. 

“Now, the indications, as I see them, point to rob¬ 
bery having been planned by someone in the village 
who was familiar with Mrs. Sutlin’s habits, and whom 
she knew well, but who was not of her class.” 


22 


MORRY 


“I don’t see how in the world you get all that.” 

“The inference that the criminal was a local resi¬ 
dent arises partly from the out-of-the-way situation 
of the place and the fact that no stranger had been 
seen there for some weeks; also, except for one per¬ 
son, no one who did not live in Frey would be likely 
to know that the adjoining house was vacant. As to 
her habits, the criminal knew that she kept her money 
in her bedroom, and exactly where in her bedroom. 
He went straight to the drawer after killing her— 
I think that is a fair deduction from the blood and 
brain matter,in the cuts in the wood and the fact that 
nothing else in the room had been disturbed. Third, 
the position of the body, and the fact that it was clad 
only in a nightdress, show that Mrs. Sutlin was killed 
while trying to get out of bed. It looks as if she 
had been awakened by some sound, perhaps the 
opening of the bedroom door, and was struck imme¬ 
diately after. Had the burglar been a stranger to 
her, and on entering her room found her getting out 
of bed, he might have taken the risk of trying to 
silence her, and killed her as the result of a struggle; 
but she was attacked on the instant, and with the 
most determined savagery.” 

66 You mean that he had to kill her because she 
knew him?” 

66 Yes—and if he had let her live, would have 
denounced him.” 

“I see.” 

“The fourth inference, that the murderer was some¬ 
one not on an equality with Mrs. Sutlin from a social 
point of view, is to be drawn from the fact that the 


THE HEADLIGHT 


23 


kitchen window had been forced when the house could 
easily have been entered by the front door, provided 
the trick of the latch were known. I don’t know 
that the wrenching open of a window necessarily 
involves much noise. But it involves some. Mrs. 
Sutlin might have been awakened by it, and opened 
her bedroom window and screamed. It looks as if 
the murderer, although he knew the house well, had 
not been accustomed to enter it by the front door.” 

I agreed. 

“The inspector made these deductions. Jafes did 
Mrs. Sutlin’s gardening for her, and sometimes other 
jobs. He saw that Jafes filled the bill, and thought 
his possession of gold a suspicious circumstance. He 
went to the cottage, told Jafes of the crime, and 
warned him that his answers to questions might be 
used against him. That was, of course, the proper 
thing to do.” 

“Quite. What did Jafes say?” 

“ 6 He appeared struck all of a heap,’ to quote the 
inspector. Asked how he had obtained the sovereign 
which his wife had changed, he refused to say. The 
inspector told him that he was not obliged to answer, 
but if he could account for the possession of the 
money, it would be wise for him to do so. Where¬ 
upon Mary Faith cried out: ‘Why don’t you say that 
Mr. Tessier gave it you?’ Jafes told her to hold her 
tongue.” 

“Who is Tessier?” 

“Mrs. Sutlin’s nephew. He lives at Threadwell, 
but he had been at Frey the day before, visiting his 
aunt.” 


24 


MORRY 


4 ‘Why should Tessier give Jafes any money?” 

“The question is rather, why should Mary Faith 
say that he had done so? Because she knew that the 
money had come out of Mrs. Sutlin’s cash-box, and 
jumped at the nearest plausible explanation she could 
think of? People do that when taken by surprise. 
Or had Jafes told her that Tessier gave it to him? 
However it may be, the inspector could get nothing 
from Jafes except persistent denials that he was con¬ 
cerned in the crime. He said that he had not been 
out of the house since dusk the previous evening. 

“The inspector telephoned to Redminster for a 
warrant to search the cottage, and a warrant to arrest 
Jafes if the result of the search justified it. He 
also telephoned to Threadwell, requesting the police 
there to see Tessier and ask him certain questions. 
Tessier said that he had not seen Jafes the previous 
day, and had never given him any money at any time. 
When informed of what had happened, he guessed 
that Jafes was suspected, and volunteered two pieces 
of evidence. The first was about the back gate. He 
said his aunt had complained about Jafes having 
wasted his time in putting it to rights without being 
told to do so. Mrs. Sutlin never used it. There was 
no purpose for which she could use it, for it only 
leads to the river, and there is no path along the 
river-bank.” 

“Why was a gate put there, then?” 

“I don’t know. The house is an old one, so it may 
have been for the purpose of obtaining water when 
there was no pump inside. Anyhow, it had not been 
opened for many years, and had been overgrown by 


THE HEADLIGHT 


25 


vegetation. The second piece of evidence volunteered 
by Tessier was, that a fortnight before his aunt told 
him about the gate she had taken him into her bed¬ 
room to show him a broken window-cord, and asked 
him if he could mend it. He told her he could not; 
it was a job for a skilled man. The next time he went 
to Frey, his aunt said that Jafes had mended the 
window. The inference is that Jafes spent some 
time in Mrs. Sutlin’s bedroom, discovered the locked 
drawer, and guessed what was in it; and made the 
back gate to open so that he could get in from the 
river-bed.” 

“Why should he want to get in from the river¬ 
bed?” 

“You will hear in a moment. Let me finish with 
what Tessier said first. He did not know how much 
money his aunt was likely to have had in the house; it 
might have been anything up to a hundred pounds. 
She had no bank account. He cashed her dividend 
cheques and took her the money. He had taken her 
forty-four pounds on October twelfth, and he thought 
she probably had something in hand then. Her 
income was about a hundred and twenty pounds a 
year, and he did not think she spent it all. 

“As soon as the inspector had received his war¬ 
rants, he searched the cottage. Several important 
discoveries were made. There was a quantity of 
bloody rags in a pail, blood stains on the floor, and 
blood on a spade in the scullery.” 

“Didn’t they find the rest of the money?” 

“No. But, when they went into the garden to see 
if there were any signs of its having been buried 


26 


MORRY 


there, they found something highly significant— 
Jafes’ footmarks, down to the river and back.” 

“Why is that specially significant?” 

“Because he had denied that he had been out dur¬ 
ing the night. The footmarks proved that he must 
have been, and after midnight; the rain was not 
heavy enough to soften the ground before then. Why 
should he deny that he had been out, unless his 
going out were connected with the crime? Why 
couldn’t he have said: T went down the garden for a 
bucket of water?’ He got his water from the river.” 

“That’s true. I see now.” 

“There is more in it than that, taking it in con¬ 
junction with what followed. When Jafes was 
arrested it was found that his clothes were damp. 
Now, put things together. Tessier’s evidence about 
Jafes’ conduct as to Mrs. Sutlin’s back gate; the fact 
that it was found open on the morning after the 
crime; the footmarks down his garden; and the fact 
that he had been wet through. The way for him to 
get to Mrs. Sutlin’s house without being seen and 
without leaving tracks was by the river-bed; once on 
the stones, he had only to walk along them, enter 
her garden by the back gate, and walk along a tiled 
path to the kitchen window. There are steps leading 
up from the river-bed to the back gate. Consequently, 
except in his own garden, there would be no foot¬ 
marks. But it was a long way, and rough walking, 
which accounts for his getting wet through.” 

“It looks like a plain case, Morry.” 

“Hardly that.” 

“Why, where’s the doubt?” 


THE HEADLIGHT 


27 


“There is something to be said on the other side. 
I will finish the evidence against Jafes. He had 
another sovereign in his pocket. It happened to be 
an Australian sovereign, and when it was shown to 
Tessier, he said that among the coins he had taken 
to his aunt on October twelfth there was one like it. 
When Jafes’ clothes were examined, a large patch 
of blood was found on the trousers. Also, in the 
cottage the police found a hatchet, which they think 
is the weapon with which the crime was committed. 
There is a spot of blood on the edge of the blade. 
Jafes offered an explanation of the last two items. 
He says that he caught a rabbit in his garden the 
week before. He skinned it on his knee, and his 
wife chopped it up with the hatchet. The analysts 
say that the stain is undoubtedly human blood and 
was fresh; as to the speck, they are not sure whether 
it is human, and they do not think it was fresh.” 

“That seems a small detail. Why aren’t you satis¬ 
fied with your case?” 

“I am satisfied with it, on the whole. But it would 
be more satisfactory if the police had found the 
rest of the money.” 

“Yes, that is queer, certainly. I suppose they 
searched the place thoroughly?” 

“It is not on the premises. They think Jafes must 
have hidden it somewhere along the river-bank.” 

“That isn’t at all likely, if he’s a countryman 
born.” 

“As far as I know, he is country-bom. Then I 
am not satisfied about the weapon. The police con¬ 
sider that the spot of blood on the axe-blade is evi- 


28 MORRY 

dence. It does not seem to me of any value what¬ 
ever.” 

“But isn’t there often a link missing in a case like 
this?” 

“Very often. Does anything else occur to you? 
Suppose you were defending Jafes, what line would 
you take?” 

I said something fatuous. 

“I should say that someone else might just as well 
have done it.” 

“Who?” 

“I should not say whom. But I should frame my 
questions in cross-examination, especially to Tessier, 
in such a way as to give the jury the idea that he 
might be the guilty party. Setting aside his evi¬ 
dence, and the forcing of the window, he might just 
as well have done it as Jafes.” 

This startled me. I considered the suggestion. 
“You mean, that he knew where Mrs. Sutlin kept her 
money and so on, but that if he had done it he would 
have entered the house by the front door?” 

“One would think so?” 

“What sort of a fellow is he?” 

“I came down this morning, instead of this after¬ 
noon, to find out. The idea that he might have done 
it occurred to the inspector on the morning of the 
discovery of the crime, and he devoted pains to it. 
When he rang up the police at Threadwell, he asked 
them about Tessier, told them to use certain pre¬ 
cautions as to questioning him, and to make, with all 
possible speed, the fullest inquiries. In his opinion, 
the results negative the possibility that Tessier did 


THE HEADLIGHT 


29 


it, and I agree with him. Tessier bears an excellent 
character. He has lived in Threadwell for several 
years, and everyone speaks well of him. He sings 
in the church choir. His employer—he is with an 
accountant—says that he is steady and reliable. 
Firms in Bristol, where he goes twice a year to do 
the preliminary work of audits, say that he behaves 
well as a temporary member of their staffs. He 
does not appear to have saved money out of his salary 
of three pounds a week, but that may be due to a 
weakness for the company of young ladies. His 
landlady—he lives in lodgings—says that he ‘some¬ 
times lets things run for a week or two,’ but she evi¬ 
dently has confidence in him. 

“A circumstance which contributed to make the 
inspector careful was that he discovered Mrs. Sutlin’s 
will, and found that most of her money was left to 
Tessier. As to that, Tessier, on being questioned 
about it, said frankly that he thought his aunt would 
probably have left him something; she used to give 
him presents—a few pounds at Christmas, and a 
pound or so when he brought her dividends—and 
always said, when she did so, that it was because he 
would not come in for much when she was gone. From 
this, he ‘supposed he was down for a bit.’ ” 

“That sounds reasonable.” 

“Perfectly reasonable. The chief constable also 
tells me that a watch was kept, unobtrusively, on him 
for some weeks after the crime. There was no sign 
whatever that he was in possession of any unusual 
sum of money. He seems, on the contrary, to have 
been subdued in his behaviour. Habitually, he is, 


30 


MORRY 


in an innocent way, something of a squire of dames. 
Since the murder, he has mostly remained in his 
lodgings out of business hours, indulging himself 
but little even in hi^ other pastime—cycling. That 
brings me to what is the only suspicious circumstance 
in regard to him, if it is one. He was fined, a year 
ago, for riding at night without a light.” 

“Pooh, that’s nothing. Anybody might be caught 
without a lamp.” 

“He was caught late—after midnight.” 

“I used to ride all night.” 

“Did you?—The inspector thought it might pos¬ 
sibly have a certain significance. However, Tessier 
reached home soon after seven, and there is every 
reason to believe that he did not go out again. If 
he had, his landlady would almost certainly have 
heard him, the house being small: he must must have 
got wet through, his bicycle must have been muddy, 
he would most likely have shown signs of fatigue 
next day—one would think, also, some sign of uneasi¬ 
ness. There is not a scrap of evidence of anything 
of the kind. Further: if he went back to Frey, how 
did he get there? He did not go all the way on his 
bicycle; there were no tracks on the road from Stag’s 
Head to Frey in the morning. It seems improbable 
that he would leave his bicycle at Stag’s Head and 
walk—two miles each way. He might have reached 
the river opposite Frey by riding through the lanes; 
but how could he have crossed it? The ferry-boat 
was chained and padlocked, and he is no swimmer.” 

“I don’t know why you are bothering about him. 
The only thing I see against him is that he is a per- 


THE HEADLIGHT 


31 


fectly good boy. I distrust perfectly good boys.” 

Morry swung round on me. “Do you?” 

“Except you, of course.” 

“I was not a good boy, Dick.” 

I wanted to laugh. Morry was so solemn over it. 

“I was not. I made a fool of myself while I was 
attending Univ. over billiards.” 

This upset me completely. Billiards! 

“No, but really,” persisted Morry. “I got into 
the way of playing for shillings and half-crowns, and 
I couldn’t afford it. I had nothing at all of my own 
then. Every penny I had came from my father or 
Dan. I had no right to risk their money in gam¬ 
bling.” 

“Did you lose?” 

“No. I made a profit.” 

The welkin rang with my shouts. 

“That makes no difference as to the rightness or 
wrongness,” said Sobersides. “I might have lost. 
Beside that, I got into debt. I owed a tobacconist in 
the Westminster Bridge Road one and twopence for 
cigarettes—four packets at threepence-halfpenny a 
packet—for a month; I had no money to pay him 
with.” 

As soon as I could control my utterance, I said: 
“Charlie Tessier is about on a par with you. He 
runs after girls and sometimes owes his landlady 
weekly shillings. Seriously—there is no reason what¬ 
ever to suppose that he committed the crime, and 
every reason to believe that Jafes did. You think 
so yourself.” 

Morry said: “I think Jafes must be guilty, but I 


32 


MORRY 


think that if I were defending him I could get him 
off. However, my business is to secure a conviction. 
I hope he will be well defended.” 

This seemed to me an extraordinary mental atti¬ 
tude. I was meditating over it when Morry said: 

“Well, there you are.” 

We had come to the crest of a rise. Below us, a 
couple of miles away, was Frey, the loop of the river 
silvery in the sunshine. 

Morry had a letter from the chief constable author¬ 
ising him to go over the widow’s house. We called 
on the policeman at Stag’s Head, and he accompanied 
us to Frey. Then I saw why Mrs. Bone had gone 
to the front door, instead of the back, as a neighbour 
would usually do in the country. The space between 
the side wall of the house and the garden wall was 
occupied by a tool shed. The shed was open to the 
back, and the door at the front had no lock, so no 
doubt Jafes had been accustomed to go through it 
when he came to work; but Mrs. Bone would probably 
not do so. We went in that way, and entered the 
house by the back door. The kitchen window was 
a hinged one, easy to force. We were taken through 
the hall to the front door, and the working of the 
trick latch was explained to us; upstairs to the bed¬ 
room that had witnessed the horror—a mute room; 
then down the garden to the back gate, really a 
door in the wall, opening on a flight of worn stone 
steps that ended in the pebbles of the river. It had 
a heavy wooden latch and bolt, but no catch for the 
bolt; Maid, the policeman, said that the latch must 
have failed to fall when the murderer closed the door 


THE HEADLIGHT 


33 


behind him, or else the wind must have blown the 
door open afterwards. 

We walked across the village to see Jafes’ cottage. 
It was a hovel with a hutch at the back, and stood 
opposite the church. A woman came to the door for 
a moment, and looked at us. I was struck by the 
expression of her face. Intense resentment. Baffled 
rage. 

“Who was that?” asked Morry. 

“Mrs. Jafes, sir,” replied Maid. 

“Ah. She is not a witness.” 

“Why isn’t she?” I inquired. 

“We are unable to call her because a wife cannot 
be compelled to give evidence against her husband.” 

“I know that. But she might be called for the 
defence.” 

“I understand that she has no evidence bearing on 
the issue to give. She told the police that she slept 
all through the night, and does not know whether her 
husband went out or not. The other side are going to 
call her sister, who says that she was awake all night, 
and that Jafes did not go out.” 

As we moved away, the church clock clanged the 
hour, each stroke of the bell vibrating clearly in the 
still air. 

We crossed the river in the ferry-boat, a clumsy 
flat-bottomed barge with a ratchet wheel, worked by 
a handle, over which ran a chain; when the boat 
was not in use, the chain lay across the bottom of 
the river. From the farther bank a lane led in the 
direction of Redminster. 

“Why weren’t you called to the bar, Dick? Then 


34 


MORRY 


we could have borrowed a wig and gown and you 
could have come into court. I have an infernal ass of 
a fellow with me. He can’t say anything except ‘I 
see your point.’ ” 

I am ashamed to say that Morry had annoyed me 
by the way in which he had explained why Mrs. Jafes 
could not be compelled to give evidence. He had 
assumed that I knew no law, whereas I did know 
a little—at least, I thought I did. The assumption 
that I had not been called to the bar annoyed me 
afresh. 

“Called?” I retorted. “Of course I have been 
called. I am just as much a barrister as you are.” 

Morry swung round and stared at me. “I did not 
know that. You never told me.” 

“I didn’t think about it.” 

“Ah.” 

My conscience reproached me. For him, to be 
called had been for so many years a far-off goal, and 
such tremendous sacrifices had to be made to reach 
it that he had been unable to conceive anyone taking 
it as a mere incident in the stereotyped career. I had 
rubbed in the difference between us. I cast about in 
my mind for some means of atonement, and found 
nothing better than a change of conversation. Apro¬ 
pos of murders and circumstantial evidence, I began 
to tell a story connected with the house at which I 
was staying. It was a good story, and I thought 
Morry would be interested. He was not interested in 
the least; he did not appear to be listening. I thought 
this was in consequence of my unfortunate failure in 
tact. I might have spared myself; it was simply an 


THE HEADLIGHT 


35 


instance of habit of mind which he had acquired; but 
it was not until five years later that I saw enough of 
Morry to realise that he had ceased to be interested 
in anything that did not in some way concern him, 
and I sat down to dinner in a very humble and re¬ 
pentant mood. 

The other man had arrived, and he certainly was 
an ass. He would talk to Morry about the case, 
and in the style of one experienced K.C. to another. 
After dinner, he melted away. I imagine that he 
went to join the promenade in the High Street. 

I lit my pipe, Morry his cigarette. I said: 

“Morry, I should like to come into court and help 
you as far as I could. But oughtn’t I to be made a 
member of the circuit before I appear?” 

Morry beamed. “I can arrange that. Will you 
really? My dear fellow, I shall be so proud. Have 
a look at the papers. There are maps and plans and 
photographs of footprints and all sorts of things.” 

We went over them together, and I knew I was 
forgiven. 

The court was crowded with people, many of whom 
had been waiting outside in the rain; the heat of their 
bodies, pressed closely together, produced a malodor¬ 
ous steam which filled the room. During the pre¬ 
liminaries, most of them stared at the “exhibits,” 
craning their necks to get a glimpse of the hatchet, 
the two sovereigns, and other articles which lay on 
the clerk’s table. The chest, with its battered bottom 
drawer, stood beside it. Below us, on the other side 
of the court, sat Mrs. Jafes and a thin pale woman 
somewhat like her; both were in black. 


36 


MORRY 


Morry began his opening speech by describing the 
circumstances connected with the crime, and the dis¬ 
covery of it, much as he had done to me the day 
before. His manner was restrained; he seemed to 
feel the seriousness of his task. Then he summarised 
the case against Jafes. 

“There is evidence that, prior to October twenty- 
sixth, the prisoner was very hard up. There is evi¬ 
dence that, two or three weeks before, he had an 
opportunity to find out that the bottom drawer in that 
chest was the only one locked. There is evidence 
that he afterwards cleared the back gate so that it 
could be opened, without any instructions from the 
deceased to do so. There is evidence which goes to 
show that he went out during the night when the 
crime was committed, late, and that he was out for 
some considerable time. The next morning he had 
in his possession those two sovereigns which are lying 
on the table. You will have an opportunity of exam¬ 
ining them later, and then you will see that one of 
them is an Australian sovereign, bearing the mark of 
the Sydney mint. There is evidence that such a 
coin came into the possession of the deceased a fort¬ 
night prior to the murder. The prisoner refused to 
say how those two coins came into his possession; 
he offered no explanation at all. His trousers were 
freshly stained with human blood. On these and 
other facts, when I have established them by the 
evidence of the witnesses I am about to call, I shall 
ask you to find the prisoner guilty.” 

He called Mrs. Bone first, then the doctor. The 
defence was in the hands of a young barrister named 


THE HEADLIGHT 


37 


Valentine. In cross-examination, he elicited from the 
doctor that there was nothing to show that the wounds 
had been inflicted with the hatchet in particular; they 
might have been caused by any heavy, blunt instru¬ 
ment. 

When Maid, the constable, had told his story, Val¬ 
entine tackled him. Maid had to admit that he and 
Jafes quarrelled in July, at the Stag’s Head Flower 
Show, and did not speak to each other after that 
until the morning when the crime was discovered. 
Valentine smiled meaningly at the jury as he sat 
down. Morry rose. 

“Just a minute, constable.” Maid was stepping 
out of the box. “You told us that while you were 
waiting at the deceased’s house for the inspector, you 
received certain information, in consequence of which 
you went to the prisoner’s cottage.” 

“That’s it.” 

“Were you actuated in any way by ill-feeling 
towards the prisoner?” 

“No. I did my duty.” 

“In your judgment, the information was such as 
to necessitate a prompt inquiry?” 

“Yes.” 

“I think the jury will agree with you.” 

Then we had the inspector, who gave us the results 
of his search. “In a teacup on the mantelpiece there 
was fifteen pence in coppers. In a paper on the 
table there was half an ounce of tea; in a packet 
nearly a quarter of a pound of sugar. In the lean-to 
I found two sacks full of potatoes in a semi-rotten 
condition.” 


38 


MORRY 


Next Mrs. Bunnett, who kept the shop, was called 
to prove that all the food in the cottage, except the 
potatoes and a little rice, had been bought from her 
that morning; she said Mrs. Jafes paid what was 
owing and spent one and sevenpence. 

It was my first experience of a trial, and the minute¬ 
ness of these details caused conflicting feelings. I 
was impressed by the scrupulous accuracy; but the 
pitifulness of the story which they revealed! From 
the legal point of view Jafes was being well defended. 
Valentine missed nothing. Morry was fair; he cor¬ 
rected a slip made by one of his witnesses, a farmer 
called to help prove that Jafes had earned little dur¬ 
ing the summer. The farmer said that he had not 
employed Jafes since June. 

‘‘Don’t you mean July?” 

The farmer did. If Morry had let the mistake 
pass, it would have weighted the scale a trifle against 
Jafes unfairly. 

After the analyst, Tessier went into the box. He 
said he had been in Bristol throughout September, 
returned to Threadwell on Monday, October second, 
and Went to see his aunt on the following Thursday. 
It was then that she showed him the broken window- 
cord. On the next Thursday, October twelfth, she 
told him Jafes had repaired it. And the last time 
he saw her before the day of the murder, that is, on 
October nineteenth, she told him about Jafes’ con¬ 
duct in regard to the back gate. 

“Did you take a sum of money to the deceased on 
October twelfth?” 

“Yes.” 


THE HEADLIGHT 


39 


“Was part of this same money in gold coin?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you happen to notice the coins?” 

“One of the sovereigns was an Australian sov¬ 
ereign. I looked at that because you don’t see many.” 

Morry directed that the coins on the table should 
be handed to the witness. 

“Just look at those two coins. Does either of them 
resemble the coin you noticed among those you took 
to the deceased?” 

“This one does. I think it is the same.” 

“At any rate, to the best of your recollection it 
is a similar coin?” 

“Yes, exactly similar.” 

Valentine began by asking him whether he was sure 
that it was on October nineteenth his aunt told him 
about the back gate? He said he was.—Would he 
think again; wasn’t it on October fifth, the first time 
he went to Frey after his sojourn in Bristol? No, 
it wasn’t.—Did not his aunt say it had happened just 
before she told him of it? He understood her so.— 
Would he be surprised to hear that there was evi¬ 
dence, from neighbours, that Jafes had been seen 
working on the gate in September, and had not been 
seen working in the garden at all afterwards? Yes, 
he would.—Was he quite sure that he had not made 
a mistake? 

Silence. Tessier seemed confused. 

“Come, Mr. Tessier. You are not really certain 
about the dates?” 

“I may have misunderstood auntie, but I don’t 
think so.” 


40 


MORRY 


I smiled to myself over Morry’s suggestion of the 
day before that it was possible Tessier might have 
committed the murder. That fellow! He was a typi¬ 
cal chorister, which does not mean that I suppose 
choristers to be impeccable—far from it; but as a 
class they are not prone to serious crime. 

Valentine concluded his cross-examination by ask¬ 
ing that the Australian sovereign should be handed to 
the witness. 

“Is that coin in your hand one of the coins you 
took to the deceased on October twelfth?” 

“I believe it is.” 

“That is not an answer to my question. Is that a 
sovereign which you took to your aunt?” 

“I can’t swear to it.” 

Valentine opened the best defence he could—at 
least, I thought so. After saying that Jafes had lived 
in Frey for nine years and that his reputation was 
that of a steady, industrious, and honest man, he re¬ 
ferred to the way in which the case against him had 
originated. 

“The constable bore prisoner a grudge, and saw 
that there was a possibility of satisfying it. He went 
to the cottage in order to let Jafes feel the weight of 
his authority, and was rebuffed. Then the inspector 
came on the scene, and built up the case by putting 
a sinister interpretation on a number of circum¬ 
stances, each of which is capable of an innocent 
interpretation. I shall prove that the clearing of the 
back gate was done in September, before the prisoner 
had even a possible opportunity to find out where the 
deceased kept her money; I shall prove that his 


THE HEADLIGHT 


41 


conduct in clearing it without orders was of a piece 
with his conduct in general. I shall show that there 
is a probable explanation of his possession of the 
two sovereigns, that he had a reason for having 
hoarded them secretly, for producing one of them on 
that particular morning, and for his unwillingness to 
tell the police where he got them. Lastly, I shall 
prove certain facts in regard to the prisoner’s capa¬ 
bilities which will convince you that it is in the highest 
degree improbable, almost impossible, that he com¬ 
mitted the crime of which he stands accused.” 

He called “Mary Faith.” The thin, pale-faced 
woman got up and went towards the box. I looked 
at the prisoner. He was watching her, and when she 
turned, facing him, in the box, it seemed as if mute 
messages were exchanged. What was he conveying 
to her? “Don’t tell?” If so, her reply was: “Very 
well, I won’t.” 

She answered the preliminary questions. Mary 
Faith. Twenty-eight. Married woman. Her hus¬ 
band had deserted her. No children. Had come to 
live with her sister and brother-in-law two years ago. 
Usually slept in the scullery, but had been sleeping 
in “the room” for a week prior to October twenty- 
sixth last because she was unwell, John sleeping in 
the scullery. On the evening of October twenty-sixth, 
John came in before it was dark. He sat in the room 
until he had had his supper, then he went into the 
scullery to lay down. That was at eight o’clock. 
Maggie was in and out between the scullery and the 
room for an hour; John spoke to her about burning 
the candle. Then she came and joined witness in 


42 


MORRY 


bed. She (witness) had not been asleep, and did 
not sleep during the night. She was in pain. John 
did not quit the cottage. If he had, she must have 
heard him. 

(I felt sure this part of her evidence was not true, 
and I thought the jury had the same impression.) 

In the morning, John said he had a sovereign. 
In reply to a question as to where it came from, he 
told Maggie to shut up. He said they would have a 
bit of a blow-out, as she (witness) was feeling better. 
He gave Maggie a sovereign, and told her to go to 
the shop and buy certain things. Maggie went out. 
While she was away, John said he had another sov¬ 
ereign, and that someone had given him both sov¬ 
ereigns “as a present like.” He laughed when he 
said this. Then he told witness that it was Mr. 
Tessier who had given him the money; she was not 
to tell anyone, specially not Maggie. (This all 
sounded as if it might be true.) 

Valentine asked two doubtful questions. 

“Did you believe the prisoner when he said Mr. 
Tessier had given him the sovereigns?” 

“I did then.” 

“Do you now?” 

“No.” 

“I want to take you back to July seventeenth, the 
day of the Flower Show at Stag’s Head. Did you 
attend the Flower Show?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did the prisoner’s wife go?” 

Again Morry might have objected, but he let the 
question pass. The answer was “No.” 


THE HEADLIGHT 


43 


“Did you see, from the prize cards placed on 
the exhibits, that prisoner had won several prizes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did he say anything to you, as to the prizes he 
had won?” 

“Yes. He said he had won twenty-five shillings, 
but he was going to tell Maggie it was fifteen.” 

“Anything else?” 

“He said he had done the same thing before.” 

“Is that why you now disbelieve his statement that 
the sovereigns he had on the morning of October 
twenty-seventh came from Mr. Tessier?” 

Morry rose. “I really must object, my lord. My 
learned friend is seeking to get from the witness what 
she imagines-” 

Valentine: “I am asking whether certain facts to 
which she has testified are the foundation for a belief 
which she has-” 

Morry, unperturbed: “. . . what she imagines as 
to a source from which the prisoner might have 
obtained the coins produced in this case.” 

There was a wrangle. The judge upheld the ob¬ 
jection. Valentine asked Mary Faith whether she 
remembered an occasion before the crime which 
might throw light on the case. She said that about 
a week before Jafes had brought in a rabbit; he said 
he had just killed it in the garden. He skinned it, 
and Maggie cut it up with the hatchet. She did it at 
the table, near where the bloodstains on the floor were. 

“You had rabbits to eat sometimes, then,” observed 
Valentine. “Did you ever have fresh fish?” 

“Yes.” 




44 


MORRY 


“Where did the fish come from when you had it?” 

The witness coloured. 

“John caught them in the river.” 

Valentine sat down. Her examination-in-chief was 
over. She thought that was all, and turned to leave 
the witness-box as Morry rose to cross-examine. The 
usher ordered her back. She returned, and stared 
at Morry as if she did not know what he could pos¬ 
sibly want with her. 

He began suavely: 

“The prisoner’s cottage is just across the road from 
the church, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can you hear the striking of the church clock?” 

“Yes. We tell the time that way.” 

“Is that how you knew it was eight o’clock when 
the prisoner got up from the table on the night of 
October twenty-sixth?” 

“Yes.” 

“And that it was nine when your sister joined you 
in bed?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you hear the clock strike ten?” 

“Yes.” 

“In spite of the wind?” 

“Oh, yes. The wind doesn’t make any difference.” 

“Did you hear it strike eleven?” 

The witness hesitated for an instant before she said 
“Yes ” 

“Twelve?” 

The hesitation was longer this time. Morry leaned 
forward and said with terrible distinctness: “Are 


THE HEADLIGHT 


45 


you going to swear that you heard the striking of 
every hour throughout the night?” And the fright¬ 
ened woman stammered: 

“I didn’t go to sleep.” 

66 Do you swear that you heard the clock strike each 
separate hour?” 

“I—I must have done, but I can’t say now that I 
remember it.” 

“That is quite a fair answer. I accept it. I believe 
what you say.” He was soothing her as one soothes 
a frightened mare. “Another thing. There were no 
fish for breakfast on the morning of October twenty- 
seventh?” 

“No.” 

He asked her a few questions about the skinning 
of the rabbit, and let her go. I don’t think the 
prisoner had ever taken his eyes off her while she 
was in the box. Mrs. Jafes, too, had watched her, 
tight lipped, contemptuous. 

Valentine’s next two witnesses were called to prove 
that Jafes cleared the back gate at the end of Sep¬ 
tember. Then the vicar of Frey went into the box. 
He said that he had employed Jafes not infrequently, 
and that Jafes did pretty much as he liked. 

“I have had to remind him several times that it 
was my garden, not his, and that he ought to do what 
he was sent for to do, not just what he thought 
proper.” As to character, the vicar said that Jafes 
was “honest but rarely attended church.” This caused 
laughter. “But I don’t consider him the sort of man 
who would commit a murder,” added the good vicar 
explanatorily. He also testified that Jafes was a 


46 


MORRY 


handy fellow. “He has done odd jobs in the house 
occasionally. Also he made me two beehives, and 
they are quite equal in every way to the patent hives.” 

“Did the prisoner ever ask you for assistance?” 

“Never. He refused it once, when I hinted at it.” 

Morry’s address to the jury was a revelation to 
me. The manner of its delivery was as quiet as that 
of his opening speech, but now the facts against Jafes 
were marshalled with a deadliness that made each 
one, as it fell into place, seem like a soldier with a 
gun pointed at the prisoner’s breast. I had never 
dreamed that advocacy could be so compelling; for, 
as Morry now told the story, there could be no doubt 
as to Jafes’ guilt. The ground was cut from under 
Valentine’s feet in advance; it was shown that there 
was nothing in the points he had tried to make. 

“It does not matter whether the gate was repaired 
first and the window-cord after, or vice versa. The 
point is that the prisoner had an opportunity of learn¬ 
ing where the money was, and knew that he could 
get to the house without leaving tracks.” The details 
which had inspired me with pity for the accused man 
were used pitilessly against him. “Mrs. Jafes re¬ 
ceived elevenpence change at the shop on the morning 
of October twenty-seventh, and when the house was 
searched a few hours later, only one-and-three was 
found in it, apart from the second sovereign. There¬ 
fore, apparently, all the money in the house the night 
before amounted to fourpence.” As to the hatchet: 
“I do not contend that the crime must have been com¬ 
mitted with that particular instrument”—pointing to 
it. “What is incumbent on the prosecution, in such 


THE HEADLIGHT 


47 


a case as this, is to show that the prisoner had a 
weapon with which the crime might have been com¬ 
mitted. The prisoner had such a weapon. There it 
is. 

“Mrs. Faith would have us believe that the prisoner 
did not go out during the night. We know that he did 
go out, but it occurred to me that she might be speak¬ 
ing in good faith, so I tested her recollection as to 
the striking of the church clock. She did not remem¬ 
ber hearing it after eleven, although, as she admitted, 
it was clearly audible at all times. So perhaps she 
was deceived by an experience common to all of us. 
She had a bad night, and dozed without knowing it.” 
As to the Australian sovereign: “I do not say that it 
is the identical coin which Mr. Tessier took to the 
deceased on October twelfth-” 

Valentine growled: “Then what do you say?” 

Morry: “No one could say so, as the coin had not 
been marked beforehand. What I say is this. It 
would be something of a coincidence, in view of the 
comparative rareness of such coins in England, if 
two of them came into one small village at the same 
time.” 

Valentine burst out: “If you don’t contend that it 
is the same coin, why did you bring in evidence to 
that effect? Either it is, or it isn’t.” 

Morry: “I say that it is a suspicious circum¬ 
stance-” 

Valentine, rising: “My lord, I submit that my 
learned friend ought to say definitely that he con¬ 
tends that the coin is the same, or withdraw any alle¬ 
gation of the kind.” 




48 


MORRY 


Morry argued that Tessier’s partial identification 
was admissible for what it was worth. Valentine dis¬ 
puted this, and grew warm. The judge ruled in 
Morry’s favour. “I shall direct the jury, at the 
proper time, as to what is to be taken as proved pro¬ 
vided they believe the witnesses.” 

Morry pulled the net over the head of the doomed 
man by a graphic picture drawn from the evidence. 
“What was the prisoner’s position on October twenty- 
sixth? The season was the brink of winter. There 
would be very little work for four months. A few 
shillings he might earn, tidying up gardens and dig¬ 
ging them over. But not much. No farmwork. 
Farmers do not require extra help in the winter time. 
Four months, three mouths to feed, and his credit 
already pledged to the utmost. Not a bright prospect 
for him to contemplate as he lay on his pallet in 
the scullery, a prospect even more dismal than that of 
the bare room, lit, as the witness Faith told us, by 
a solitary tallow candle. No means of escape from 
it unless, on the one hand, he accepts charity—a 
course abhorrent to his proud, stubborn nature—or, 
on the other hand, he procures money—money. 

“Fourpence was all he had. How was more money 
to be procured? Where was procurable money to be 
found? There was money in the widow lady’s bot¬ 
tom drawer, and it could be procured if one resolved 
to get it whatever the cost might be. 

“The wind got up. The rain became heavy. Had 
the prisoner been waiting for such a night as this, 
when no one would be about, and he could steal 
forth unperceived? Or did he go out that night, 


THE HEADLIGHT 


49 


when the rain was falling in torrents and the gale at 
its height, on an impulse? For, go out he did.” 

I had nothing to do until Morry had finished speak¬ 
ing, and it came to Valentine’s turn to address the 
jury. 

I took a piece of paper, part of a sheet I had 
torn in two, and torn carelessly. It is a habit of mine 
to use odd scraps of paper for literary purposes. I 
turned this scrap point uppermost—I don’t know why 
—and wrote what I call a “picturesque note.” 

Morry finished his picture. “Is there, can there 
be any doubt in your minds that the prisoner mur¬ 
dered Mrs. Sutlin? You have yet to hear my learned 
friend for the defence, and I am sure you will give 
him the same careful attention that you have given me. 
It may be that a slightly different complexion will be 
put on some of the circumstances. But you must 
bear them in mind as a whole, and on the circum¬ 
stances as a whole it is your duty to return a verdict 
of guilty.” 

After this, Valentine’s speech seemed tame. He 
said that we had entirely failed to make out our case, 
that we had not even attempted to prove vital parts 
of it, such as that Jafes was left alone in Mrs. Sut- 
lin’s bedroom when he repaired the window, or that 
he went farther than the foot of his garden on the 
night of the murder, if he went out at all. Other 
parts had been disproved by the evidence of his 
witnesses. He tried to explain away some of the 
adverse facts. 

“As to the prisoner’s going out during the night, 
Mrs. Faith must have known if he had gone out after 


50 


MORRY 


Mrs. Jafes joined her in bed, because everything was 
quiet then; but she would not necessarily know if he 
went out before nine; she only heard him speak to 
his wife once. There was rain enough between eight 
and nine to soften the ground. I suggest that if he 
did go out, the evidence has supplied a reason for 
his doing so which has nothing to do with the murder 
of Mrs. Sutlin.” 

I happened to glance again at the prisoner. 
Hitherto, he had not appeared to take much interest 
in what Valentine was saying. Now he was staring in 
a frightened fashion at his advocate. Valentine 
paused, no doubt for the purpose of framing what he 
wished to convey; in the pause a brown sweat came 
out on the prisoner’s face, and the Adam’s apple 
in his throat began to jump up and down. 

“I suggest,” Valentine went on, “that the fish which 
occasionally appeared on the prisoner’s table had been 
obliging enough to hang themselves on hooks during 
the night.” 

The artful beggar made it plain that he had set 
night-lines himself, and some of the jurymen smiled. 
I looked again at the prisoner. He was standing 
upright—he had been leaning forward—and the ex¬ 
pression on his face was of relief. 

This was all well enough, but it could not undo 
Morry’s iron logic, to say nothing of the effect of his 
terrible picture. Then Valentine startled me with a 
really good argument. 

“Look at that chest of drawers. Would anyone 
accustomed to the use of tools batter a drawer open 
in that manner? Is it credible that an ingenious fel- 


THE HEADLIGHT 


51 


low who could make beehives and take out window- 
frames wasted his time and made a lot of unnecessary 
noise when it was vital that he should be quick and 
quiet? A skilful carpenter like Jafes would have 
inserted the edge of the axe-blade between the top 
of the drawer-front and the ledge of wood above it, 
levered the ledge up, and had the drawer out in a 
few seconds without making a sound. Of course he 
would. That clumsy botch is the work of a man who 
never had the habit of handling tools.” 

This impressed me. A very little training in car¬ 
pentry as a boy had led me as a man to open my 
desk, when I had mislaid my keys, exactly as Valen¬ 
tine suggested. But I don’t think the argument had 
much effect on the jury. 

Valentine wound up with a strong appeal based on 
the evidence as to character, in the course of which 
a little incident occurred. 

“Even the witnesses for the prosecution testified to 
the prisoner’s honesty. Mrs. Farren, the stallkeeper 
in Thrawley market, to whom the prisoner sold eggs 
and from whom he bought groceries, said-” 

He looked down at his notes, could not find what 
he wanted. 

I pushed mine towards Morry, and indicated a pas¬ 
sage. “He means Mrs. Bunnett. She said that Jafes 
always paid up.” I am ashamed to own that I was 
chuckling over Valentine’s mistake. 

Morry took my notes and passed them to Valen¬ 
tine. “Is this what you want?” 

Valentine looked. “Oh, thank you.”—To the jury: 
“I am indebted to my learned friend. It was Mrs. 



52 


MORRY 


Bunnett’s evidence that I had in mind, not Mrs. 
Farren’s. Mrs. Bunnet said ...” 

My inexperience led me to marvel. 

Counsel for the Crown has a right to a final reply 
—a privilege which some people think should be 
abolished. Morry made a moderate use of it. He 
began exposing the fallacy in Valentine’s contention 
that we had failed to prove all the steps in our case. 

“My learned friend would have you believe that 
inasmuch as I have not produced witnesses to say that 
they saw the prisoner do this and that, you ought to 
acquit him. It is frequently the case, in regard to 
murder, that there is no direct evidence. The guilt 
of a person charged often has to be inferred, because 
precautions have been taken beforehand to escape 
suspicion or to baffle the law by providing seemingly 
good evidence which will afford a loophole for 
escape.” Then he dealt briefly with most of Valen¬ 
tine’s arguments on points of detail, and sat down. 
He did not refer to the way in which the drawer had 
been smashed open. 

The judge prefaced his summing-up with compli¬ 
ments to counsel on both sides. Then he reviewed 
the evidence, impartially, and warned the jury that 
although they might feel a certain amount of pity 
for Jafes, that must not influence them as to the 
verdict. They could, if they found against him, 
recommend him to the mercy of the Crown. It would 
be for the authorities to decide, after reviewing the 
circumstances, whether it would be proper to extend 
clemency to him or not. The jury’s duty was to return 
a verdict according to the evidence. 


THE HEADLIGHT 


53 


They began to talk to each other in the box. 

I had been hoping against hope that Jafes would 
get off. But now, when, as I thought, the jury hesi¬ 
tated, I was filled with resentment against them. It 
seemed unfair that he should get off, after all Morry 
had done. In similar fashion, I have hoped that 
the fox would escape when I glimpsed him scudding 
off early in a run, and yet, if at the end of it some 
piece of luck has saved his brush, I have been 
vexed. Resolve the riddle who can. 

“Guilty, my lord.” 

The judge gave a short homily to the prisoner, and 
invested himself with the black cap. Why do we 
cling to these childish dressings-up at moments of 
solemnity? That particular bit of mummery is a 
ghastly one. 

. . until you are dead, and may God have 
mercy on your soul.” 

There was a bustle in court. The condemned man 
was removed from the dock. 

I had a profound revulsion of feeling. I wished 
with all my heart that Jafes had been acquitted. 
“Morry’s headlight did it,” was my thought. 

“Give me your papers, Dick,” said Morry in a 
slightly peremptory tone. “I want to catch the six 
o’clock to town.” 

I put the papers together hastily, and forgot all 
about my picturesque note. I did not remember it 
until I went to bed. Unable to find it, I concluded 
that I must have dropped it on the floor. 

A few days later, I went abroad, and, except for 
brief periods, remained away five years. 


CHAPTER IV 


The Gears Pick Up 

When I returned to England, I rang Morry up 
at his chambers in the Temple. 

“My dear fellow—you in town? Splendid. Come 
and lunch with me to-day. I shall be in Ad¬ 
miralty Court 2. One to a quarter past. You will? 
Right.” 

Morry was one of a solid row of junior counsel. 
In the row in front were four or five K.C.’s. The 
one immediately before Morry was on his feet, talk¬ 
ing learnedly about the loading of ships. I was 
wiser a quarter of an hour later, when the court 
rose, as to the proper way to stow cargo; but I had 
no idea what the case was about. 

Morry gripped my arm. “How are you, old fel¬ 
low? It is good to see you again. Have you been 
in court?”—We were hurrying through the gallery, 
diving this way and that to avoid people.—“I don’t 
think Foljambe has taken the best point in our case. 
It is not the question of loading. It is the structure, 
and the crucial thing is the centre of gravity. I 
suggested that to him in consultation, but he didn’t 
think so, and said he would leave it to me.” 

We came to a stop in the dismal cellar where un¬ 
fortunates who are mixed up in lawsuits snatch what 
food they can get in the half-hour luncheon interval. 
I ate, and Morry talked about the case. I was struck 
by his intensity; he seemed to be entirely absorbed 


THE GEARS PICK UP 


55 


in it. The clock was on the verge of two before he 
spoke of anything else. Then he inquired: 

46 How long are you staying in town?” 

I told him that I was going to live in London. 
6< I’ve decided that diplomacy isn’t my forte. I shall 
try to write.” 

“Splendid. We must see a great deal of each 
other. What do you say to a walk on Sunday?” 

I said 66 Yes.” We were flying through the cor¬ 
ridors again. 

“Call for me, then—6, Pembridge Gardens. Ten 
o’clock. Will that suit you?” 

I said it would. 66 Are you going to speak this 
afternoon?” 

“Yes; as soon as Foljambe has finished. Coming 
in? Splendid.” 

I took a seat immediately behind him. Foljambe 
resumed, and, as before, Morry listened intently. 
After a time I noticed something. He had a blue 
pencil in his right hand, and the blunt end of it 
moved all the time, though only just perceptibly; 
it seemed to me that the movement was an uncon¬ 
scious nervous trick. 

When Foljambe finished and went off to some other 
court, Morry rose, and I recognised how immensely 
he had come on since I had heard him before. He 
had been good then—quiet, earnest, and clear. But 
now he had developed a manner—a manner at once 
persuasive and forceful. He spoke in the easy way 
of one who knows that he will be listened to, and his 
lucidity was astonishing. In less than ten minutes 
I knew exactly what the case was about; it was about 


56 


MORRY 


a ship that had turned turtle on her maiden voyage. 
The builders sheltered themselves behind the finding 
at the Board of Trade inquiry, and said the cargo 
had been badly stowed; the owners, for whom Fol- 
jambe and Morry were appearing, the dock company, 
and the Stevedores Union, said that the cargo had 
been properly stowed. Foljambe had made this point. 
Morry was carrying the war into the enemy’s country, 
attacking the builders on the ground that the ship 
had been wrongly designed. One would have thought, 
to hear him, that he had been brought up to shipbuild¬ 
ing. I was so much interested that I stayed all the 
afternoon. 

On the Sunday morning I went to Notting Hill. 
The house was a good one, and I found the interior 
well-appointed and quiet, even a little sombre. As 
I entered, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Abramson peer¬ 
ing over the banister on the first floor; I called out a 
greeting, but he disappeared without reply. He 
looked very old. 

The maid showed me into the dining room. Morry 
was finishing his breakfast. Sara—I learned that 
she had dropped the “h”—sat at the end of the table 
and entertained me. 

“Will you take something, Mr. Youatt? A cup of 
coffee—just a cup of coffee—do! Won’t you, 
really?—No, Maurice, you are not to talk. Leave 
Mr. Youatt to me. Eat your breakfast.—You have 
no idea what a trouble it is to get him to eat any¬ 
thing, Mr. Youatt. This is the only day in the week 
when he takes a proper breakfast. On the other 
mornings he always has letters to read, or else he 


THE GEARS PICK UP 


57 


is thinking about his cases and eats next to nothing. 
Besides, he has no time to eat his breakfast except 
on Sundays, although he gets up so early. Never 
later on weekdays than six. He is supposed to come 
to breakfast at eight, but he never does. It is gen¬ 
erally a quarter-past, and he has to leave at half-past 
so as to be at the Temple at nine. Then, he goes to 
bed so dreadfully late. Hardly ever before one, and 
very often it is two or after before I hear him come 
upstairs. He is simply killing himself with work, 
Mr. Youatt; and it is no use talking to him. At least” 
—archly— 46 it is no use my talking to him. Perhaps 
now you have come to London he will go out some¬ 
times in the evenings, and take a week-end off occa¬ 
sionally.” 

She gave me the news of the rest of the family. 
Mrs. Abramson, it appeared, rarely left her room. 
Mr. Abramson had become very deaf, and could not 
hear anything said by anyone except herself. Dan 
was prospering mightily, managing-director of a large 
business. Joe was not doing any good, and never 
would “as long as Maurice will lend him money when¬ 
ever he comes whining.” Jessie’s boy and girl were 
growing up a credit to everybody, but her husband 
had not been fortunate in business, and had bad 
health. Judith had become a mistress in a training- 
college. Ben was in America, married and doing 
well. Matt had left Cambridge without a degree, and 
“talks about going out to join Ben, if Maurice will 
give him the money.” 

Morry went up to see his mother. 

“But, of course,” said Sara as the door closed, 


58 


MORRY 


“there is no one like Maurice. It will be such a good 
thing for him to see more of you. He has no close 
personal friend, Mr. Youatt, although he has a great 
number of friends; people think highly of him. But 
he is not intimate with anyone outside the family. 
When we refer to it, he speaks of you. So you will 
let us see you sometimes, won’t you?” 

I was embarrassed. I asked if I might go up to 
Mrs. Abramson. 

“Oh, would you? Really? That is kind.” Sara 
spoke as if I were guilty of extraordinary affability. 
“But you will have to wait a minute or two.” She 
tripped off. 

Mrs. Abramson was in bed, a mountain of a 
woman, so unwieldy as to be almost helpless. She 
had a smart cap and dressing-jacket on, and I sur¬ 
mised that Sara had kept me waiting in order to 
spruce her up. Her eyes were as bright as ever, and 
she still had her jolly laugh. Morry was sitting by 
her bedside, and she was fondling his hand. Her 
pride and joy in him were beautiful to see. 

“Do you remember coming to our house at Mir- 
field when you were a little boy, and Morry was ten 
months old?” I said I remembered it perfectly. 

“I did not think then that he would be a great man. 
Now, many people prophesy that he will. You may 
be proud to be his friend yet, Mr. Youatt.” 

I said I was quite prepared for that. 

“Rubbish!” said Morry with his beam. 

“Mr. Youatt will be proud of you, when the time 
comes,” said his mother. “He never was like some.” 

We chatted for a while. 


THE GEARS PICK UP 


59 


“Now be off, the pair of you. Have a good walk, 
renew the old days. You will come back to supper 
to-night, Mr. Youatt? Sara expects you.” 

We took a bus to Hampstead, and walked across the 
heath. Morry talked about the two cases that he 
had coming on that week. 

“What happened about the ship?” 

“We lost. However, we are appealing.” 

I tried to discuss the case with him. To my sur¬ 
prise, Morry was no longer interested in it. I 
realised, in an interval of silence, that he achieved his 
intense concentration on the cases in hand by wiping 
the slate clean. 

“Cockles is back in England.” I broke the pause. 
“Oh?” 

Then he had not known. 

“Yes. Her old lady in Montpellier is dead. She 
is staying with Lady Vochlear for the present.” 

“Vochlear,” said Morry thoughtfully. “The name 
seems familiar.” 

“You have probably seen Lady V’s portrait in the 
illustrated papers. She is a social star of the first 
magnitude.” 

“I don’t think I have heard the name in that con¬ 
nection, Dick.” 

“Perhaps you have come across her husband, Sir 
Adrian. He is a City baronet—Vochlear & Co., finan¬ 
ciers, very old established and very wealthy.” 

“Ah, that may be it.” 

“Cockles and Lady V seem to have struck up a 
friendship. Lady V is taking her about a great 
deal.” 


60 


MORRY 


“Oh?” Morry seemed no more interested in Nesta 
than in so many other things. 

I persevered. “I thought we might dine together 
one night—we three.” 

Morry consented perfunctorily, and asked: “Didn’t 
Sir Adrian Vochlear stand for Parliament? It comes 
back to me now.” 

“Yes, I believe he did.” 

“I should like to make that my next move, Dick. 
But I have been told for some time past that I ought 
to take Silk, and I don’t see my way to both things 
together. Standing for Parliament is an expensive 
matter, and when I become a K.C. I shall probably 
suffer a loss of income for a year or two.” 

I was puzzled. King’s Counsel are entitled to 
higher fees than juniors. “How can that be?” 

“Well, people employ me now, and pay me higher 
fees than juniors usually get, because solicitors are 
kind enough to tell them that I am as good as most 
of the K.C.’s. I shall lose that part of my practice 
when I become a K. C. myself.” (When a K.C. is 
employed, a junior must be employed with him; 
whereas a junior may be employed alone.) “What 
do you think as to the probability of a General 
Election?” 

We discussed politics. 

“I think I shall postpone taking Silk,” was Morry’s 
conclusion. “At the last two elections I did a good 
deal of work in Limesea for Harold Warriner. A 
month ago the chairman of the executive told me that 
Warriner will not stand again. He hinted at a pos¬ 
sible invitation. The constitutency has advantages. 


THE GEARS PICK UP 


61 


It is near London, so that I could get backwards and 
forwards without loss of time. But it is an expensive 
place to fight. It cannot be done for less than seven 
or eight hundred pounds.” 

“Can’t you get something out of the party funds?” 

“The Whip’s Office have offered to help me to 
fight Hartindale, but that is almost absolutely safe 
for your people. I doubt whether they will do any¬ 
thing if I accept the nomination at Limesea: anyone 
on our side would have a good chance there, and I 
don’t think the Whip will be pleased if the local 
association put me forward. He would like to have 
the choice of candidate.” 

“You think it wise to play for your own hand?” 

“Oh, yes. I don’t intend either to be in the Whip’s 
pocket or to waste time and money in fighting forlorn 
hopes. You see, Dick-” 

I realised, for the first time, that Morry held very 
definite political views. They were opposed to mine. 
It might almost have been said that we agreed only 
in desiring the best for our country; as to what it 
was, we differed profoundly. 

After an interval of silence, Morry said: “Tell me 
something about your own plans. Where are you 
going to live, and what kind of literary work are you 
intending to do?” 

I said that I was going to live in Clifford’s Inn, and 
that I intended to write plays for the present; novels, 
perhaps, later. 

“I have been considering a proposal to make to 
you. The conduct of a case frequently depends on 
the credibility of a particular witness, very often a 



62 


MORRY 


plaintiff or defendant. Would you, in such cases, 
come over and read the papers, be present at con¬ 
sultations, and give me the benefit of your advice?” 

Nothing was farther from my intentions than to 
practise the law, and I was considering how to refuse 
when I became conscious of an overwhelming curi¬ 
osity. I shared the popular view as to lawyers gen¬ 
erally—that they say in court whatever they are paid 
to say. Morry’s attitude in the Frey case had in¬ 
trigued me. He had been at pains to investigate the 
possibility that a person other than the person he 
was briefed to prosecute might be guilty; what would 
he have done if instead of being disposed of it had 
been strengthened? What did he do when he was 
asked to uphold a cause he entirely disbelieved in? 

64 You might find it worth your while, Dick. You 
would pick up any number of ideas for plots.” 

I told him there were only thirty-two anyhow. 
44 What I should like would be to go into court in the 
interesting cases, knowing enough about them before¬ 
hand to be able to follow your tactics.” 

44 My dear fellow, if you could spare the time, that 
would be splendid. Your insight would be invalu¬ 
able.” 

I wondered what made him say that. I stipulated 
that I must not be made responsible for handling any 
kind of business by myself, and, above all, never be 
asked to open my mouth in court. 


My early experiences in chambers were so inter¬ 
esting that for two years I spent most of my days 


THE GEARS PICK UP 


63 


there. A comer was found for me, where, as well 
as I could, I played at being a lawyer. The other two 
men in Morry’s chambers, Finegold and Attlee, kindly 
lent themselves to this imposture by setting me to 
look out precedents as occasion required, a task com¬ 
monly relegated, with directions, to the youthful 
“devil.” I was no longer a youth, but I devilled to 
the best of my ability; professionally, I was never 
anything but a joke. A lawyer’s life is a dog’s life, 
anyhow. 

However, Morry seemed to like it, and to like 
having me there. He fell into the habit of talking 
his cases over with me, no doubt for the purpose of 
arranging his ideas. Occasionally, I was able to con¬ 
tribute a scrap of information, or—more rarely—a 
suggestion, when some non-legal aspect of a matter 
was uppermost. There was an astonishing variety 
in the matters with which Morry dealt; some of them 
hardly had a legal aspect at all, and it was the con¬ 
sultations in such cases which were the most inter¬ 
esting. All sorts of people were brought by their 
solicitors for advice, and very often it was a superla¬ 
tive common sense that was needed. Morry would 
devote a patience, and a degree of intelligence, to 
problems sometimes trifling in themselves, which im¬ 
pressed me almost as much as his disinterestedness. 
“It would be to my advantage and Mr. So-and-So’s,” 
he would say, “to encourage you to go on with this 
—run you in for a nice little lawsuit, you know. 
But there is no need for it. Go and see this fellow. 
Tell him”—and so on: quintessential common sense. 

I also spent many days in court. Superficially, 


64 


MORRY 


there was a marked difference between Morry as jun¬ 
ior to a K.C. and Morry in charge of a case. When 
acting as a junior, his outstanding characteristic was 
vigilance. He was unvaryingly smooth-mannered and 
deprecatory of speech with his leaders; yet, as he 
crouched catlike over his papers, something suggested 
that the idea in his mind was: “I know this fellow 
will go wrong if I don’t look out.” Whereas, when 
he was briefed without a leader, he seemed to take 
things easily. Suave, bland, on the best of terms 
with himself and everybody else—that was Morry, as 
a rule. “What a nice gentleman!” I overheard one 
day in a feminine whisper while Morry was opening 
for a plaintiff; the remark was typical. When he had 
nothing to do, he would lie back comfortably with his 
eyes shut, apparently dozing. The doze was only 
apparent, and the nice gentleman could be anything 
but nice given occasion. Imperturbable Morry always 
was; he thought processionally; no matter how acute 
the emergency, he would revise his plan of attack, 
or throw up new defences, in court, as calmly as 
though he had been in his armchair in King’s Bench 
Walk and the trial a week off. 

Cricket is said to be the most gloriously uncertain 
of games; I don’t know about the glory, but for 
uncertainty a trial beats a cricket-match to nothing. 
It frequently happened that of my own knowledge I 
had hardly a notion how things were going; but 
after a while I discovered a source for prediction. 
When in court in the ship case I had noticed that the 
blunt end of Morry’s blue pencil moved as he held 
it loosely in his hand while listening to his leader; 


THE GEARS PICK UP 


65 


subsequent observations proved this to be a habit— 
he did it sometimes in chambers—and the character 
of the movement was an index to the undercurrent of 
his thoughts. Thus, when he was feeling confident in 
court, the movement was in three beats, the interval 
between the first and second being twice as long as 
the interval between the second and third: I came to 
call this “Things-Go-Well.” When he was doubtful, 
the movement was still in three beats, but the inter¬ 
vals were equal and longer: I called this “I-Don’t- 
Know.” When things were going badly, the move¬ 
ment was clockwise in an oval, and slow: “What- 
Shall-I-Do?” If he hit on a good idea, the movement 
was reversed and quicker: “I-Wonder.” Lastly, there 
was a single beat, very slow, which meant that it was 
all over; I called this “The Funeral March.” 

This discovery gave me a reputation as a prophet 
with Finegold and Attlee, and Duncan, prince of 
clerks. Even Morry would sometimes ask: “What 
do you think of our chance?” 

“We are going to win,” I might reply in a confident 
tone. 

“I wish I were as sure of it as you seem to be.” 

He was sure, only he did not know that. The 
subconsciousness which moved the pencil did not 
trouble itself about details that worried the conscious 
and a little over-conscientious intelligence. After¬ 
wards, it would be: “You were right, Dick. How 
did you know?” 

But I never told him. 

I did not solve my problem. As far as I could 
make out, Morry only considered whether the in- 


66 


MORRY 


trinsic merits of a case justified him in upholding 
it when there was a question of sharp practice or 
dishonesty. He hated pettifoggery. “No, no,” he 
would say instantly if client or solicitor suggested a 
doubtful manoeuvre; “we must fight on a straight 
issue.” A shyster solicitor with a swindler for a 
client, who wanted Morry to deceive a judge, received 
a talking-to which he must remember still. But short 
of that, Morry seemed to take things as they came. 
Nevertheless, I came to the conclusion eventually that 
his conduct was governed by the desire that justice 
should be done. He knew instinctively what would be 
fair, and that was what he aimed at, although usually 
he asked for more—like the man who only wanted a 
cottage and a good-tempered wife, but prayed for a 
palace full of angels. Morry was not, however, aware 
of his limiting instinct; he thought he tried to get all 
he could for his clients. Yet, with him, honesty was 
inherent. What principle guided him? 

I knew there must be one, but I never succeeded 
in formulating it. The solution was given me many 
years later. 


CHAPTER V 


The Orange Spark 

One day when I had not been to chambers, Morry 
rang me up at half-past six. 

“Have you an engagement this evening, Dick?” 

I said I hadn’t. 

“Will you eat food with me at home? I promised 
Sara I would be home, and I do not wish to disappoint 
her. But I want to talk to you.” 

“All right. Are you ready now?” 

“I shall be in a few minutes.” 

“I’ll come round for you.” I knew that dinner 
would be at half-past seven, and thought that if I 
went to collect Morry there might be a chance of 
getting him there at the proper time. Otherwise, it 
would very likely be after eight when he arrived. 

I waited an hour for my pains. It was five minutes 
to eight when he called me into his room. 

“Ah, my dear fellow. Sorry to keep you waiting. 
I am afraid we shall be a little late.” This with the 
most beautiful unconsciousness. 

“You’ll find out when you get home,” I said, not 
without relish. I was hungry, and looked to Sara to 
avenge me. 

Her tirade, however, was a mild one, my presence 
being, according to her, an ample compensation for 
Morry’s delinquency—Sara always affected to regard 
me as a kind of royalty—and Morry took no notice 
67 


68 


MORRY 


of what she said. As far as my knowledge goes, he 
rarely did take notice of Sara’s scoldings; he was a 
hopeless man from a housekeeper’s point of view. 

Matt had gone to America, Mrs. Abramson did not 
appear that night, and Mr. Abramson sat silent and 
incurious, absorbed in his own thoughts. Sara chat¬ 
tered in her sprightly fashion, and Morry tried to 
make polite conversation about indifferent matters. 
As soon as dinner was over, he said: 

“I am going to take Dick into my den. We have 
a matter to talk over.” 

“Really!” exclaimed the indignant Sara, “I hardly 
ever see anybody, and I do think, when you bring 
a guest—especially a guest like Mr. Youatt!—you 
might behave properly. Mr. Youatt, it is too bad of 
him, isn’t it? Don’t go.” 

I pleaded that it was business. 

“Business! Always business. Stay with me in the 
drawing-room, and let Maurice shut himself up if he 
likes.” 

I might have yielded temporarily, but she promised 
to sing to me, and that did it. Five minutes later, 
Morry and I found ourselves in his den. I lit my 
pipe. He began: 

“Have you met Madame Isola Bella?” 

“Yes.” 

“Tell me all you know about her.” 

I said she was an American who had a name over 
there for a new kind of dancing. She had arrived in 
London some months ago, and had caught on here. 
She was appearing at a leading variety theatre, and 
had many private engagements. 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


69 


“What kind of dancing is it?”—Morry never went 
anywhere. 

“Pseudo-classic—a series of swaying, rhythmic 
movements rather than dancing in the usual meaning 
of the word. She uses her arms a great deal.” 

“To what in particular do you attribute her suc¬ 
cess?” 

I hesitated. “Well, it’s a novelty. There isn’t 
much in it, really. But you know how people run 
after anything new, if it happens to catch on.” 

“What else had you in your mind?” 

“She’s good-looking—a moonlight beauty—and 
wears dark filmy robes which reveal her figure. 
That ’s a sensation.” 

“Have you talked to her?” 

“Yes, a little, at different times.” 

“What impression did she make on you?” 

I found it hard to say. Isola Bella spoke in a flat 
voice, her manner was almost apathetic, her face 
was usually immobile except for a mechanical smile. 
There was an expression in her eyes which baffled 
me. 

“Her personality is veiled. The only thing I can 
tell you with certainty is that sometimes she is 
frightened.” 

“Frightened? What of?” 

“I don’t know. When people come into a room 
where she is—late guests, say—she turns her head 
towards them apprehensively.” 

“What an observer you are! An invaluable fellow. 
Now tell me. Do you know a man named Garavan?” 

“I have met him.” 


70 


MORRY 


“You have met almost everyone. Do you know 
him?” 

“No.” 

“And don’t want to?” 

“If you like.” 

“Your tone suggested it. Why don’t you want to 
know him, Dick?” 

“He isn’t my sort.” 

“What sort is he?” 

“I don’t know much about him, except that he is 
enormously rich, and gives week-end parties at his 
place near Henley, where, as some people say, the 
guests don’t always behave in accordance with the 
customs of polite society.” 

“Ah. Is that true, do you think?” 

“I don’t know. I heard a discussion on the ques¬ 
tion the other day. Lady Pengettrick said it was so. 
She used the word ‘orgies.’ Harriet Milne said it 
was not true. She had been to Henley for a week¬ 
end, and although people behaved with rather more 
freedom than in some houses, there was nothing to 
justify the scandalous stories which were being cir¬ 
culated.” 

“I see.” Morry was thoughtful. “Have you heard 
anything against Madame Isola Bella’s character?” 

“Not a syllable.” 

“No hint that she was Garavan’s mistress?” 

“No. I don’t believe she is.” 

“Why, particularly?”—Morry rated me something 
of a cynic. 

“Because he would take care to let people know it.” 

“Ah.” Morry became thoughtful again. 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


71 


“He is an American too, by the way,” I added. 

“They are neither of them Americans, unfortu¬ 
nately. Madame Isola Bella was born in England of 
English parents; she was seven when she was taken 
to America, and has not been naturalised. Garavan, 
on the other hand, although born in America—as I 
understand, of immigrant parents—has recently taken 
out naturalisation papers here.” 

“Oh, yes; I heard he was intending to do that. 
I had forgotten it.” 

“So that they are both English, for legal pur¬ 
poses.” 

It was a rule of mine not to ask Morry questions 
at such times. I adhered to it on this occasion. Some 
minutes elapsed before he spoke again. 

“She was formerly Garavan’s mistress, Dick.” 

“In America?” 

“Yes. And she had a child by him, when she was 
nineteen. He cast her off as soon as he knew she was 
going to have a child, and left her to face the world 
with a thousand dollars.” 

“The brute.” 

“Yes.” 

Another pause. 

“She has lived virtuously since, so she says. She 
came back to England, and her child was born here. 
But she found difficulty in getting engagements, be¬ 
cause she was not known to theatrical managers. So 
she returned to America. There she had a hard 
struggle, but managed to win through. Some people 
befriended her—the wife of the president of one of 
the universities chiefly. Through these people she 


72 


MORRY 


obtained engagements to dance in classical plays, and 
so made her name. There was a scandal afterwards. 
The professor left his wife, and followed Madame 
Isola Bella to New York. She would have nothing 
to do with him, and it was to put herself out of his 
reach that she came again to England.” 

I reflected that this was a thin story. 

“The child appears to be everything to her. She 
had no idea, when she came to England, that Garavan 
was here. She did not know of it until after her 
boom began. Then he called at the theatre. He 
wished her to resume their former relations.” 

“Nice man.” 

“She refused, of course. He pestered her. He 
found out where she lived, came there, and made a 
scene.” 

“On what ground?” 

“That she had kept his child from him. He pre¬ 
tends that she never told him she was going to have 
a child, that the thousand dollars was merely a 
gratuity on the cessation of their relationship. He 
claims that if she had hinted there was going to be a 
child, he would have provided for her and the child 
adequately. She says that is false—that he knew.” 

“She would tell him, naturally.” 

“Yes. There was a friend of theirs who could 
prove that she did, if he could be found. Garavan 
now claims a share in the child, and the right to 
interest himself in her welfare.” 

“Child a girl?” 

“Yes—six years old.” 

“Gan he enforce his claim?” 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


73 


“He has found a means to do so, at any rate in a 
measure—an unusual means, but a legal one. He has 
settled a sum of money on the child, and applied to 
have her made a ward of Chancery.” 

“Will the court grant the application?” 

“Probably it will, unless some good reason can 
be shown why it should not. In the ordinary way, the 
fact that a father settles money on an illegitimate 
child is held to be sufficient proof that he is interested 
in the child and its welfare, and entitled to a reason¬ 
able share in its life: to have it stay with him occa¬ 
sionally, for example. That is what Garavan wants.” 

“And Isola Bella doesn’t like that?” 

“She abhors the idea. She says he is a thoroughly 
bad man, that she wished to break with him long 
before the break came, but dared not because he 
terrorised her. Afterwards, friends told her terrible 
stories of his vices, and she believes them. She 
claims that the child ought to be protected from him, 
rather than have him forced upon her.” 

“There is something to be said for that.” 

“Yes, from the moral point of view, but not from 
the legal point of view.” 

“Why not? If he is an out-and-out rotter-” 

“Prove it,” said Morry simply. 

I reflected. As far as the “orgies” in England were 
concerned, it was unlikely that definite evidence could 
be obtained, even supposing anything of the kind 
really took place. Remained Isola Bella’s evidence. 
The worst of what she believed she only had on 
hearsay; as to the rest—his conduct when she was 
with him, and the circumstances of the rupture 



74 


MORRY 


between them—it was his word against hers. And 
against her was the scandal in connection with the 
professor, which might be raked up; if it were, Gara- 
van’s word would appear better than hers. Except 
that- 

“Didn’t you say there was a witness to the fact that 
he knew she was going to have a child when he cast 
her off?” 

“The man left the States soon after, and, as far 
as Madame Isola Bella knows, remained abroad. She 
has no idea where he is now, or how to trace him.” 

That was a blank wall, then. It did not occur to me 
to ask his name. 

“I don’t see how you can say anything against 
Garavan’s character. Isola Bella wants you to appear 
for her, I suppose?” 

“Yes. I think first I will go and see the child, talk 
to her, and form my own impressions. It would be 
better to go, to the house, don’t you think, than to 
have the little girl down to chambers?” 

“Much better. Play trains with her in the garden, 
Morry, if there is one.” 

“Ah. I should miss my old companion, Dick.” 

I noticed that he did not say “companions.” I 
had put in the allusion to trains with a double pur¬ 
pose. It was probable that to engage in some such 
play with the child would be the best way to make 
her show her real self; also, I wanted to remind 
Morry of Nesta. His tone, and his “Madame Isola 
Bella” alarmed me. The “Madame” was a bad sign. 
Why not “Isola Bella” simply? It was an assumed 
name, as everybody knew. Morry was a womanless 



THE ORANGE SPARK 


75 


man. And when a womanless man speaks ultra- 
respectfully of a stage lady, whom he has met once, 
by her stage name, well- 

Morry puzzled me in regard to Nesta. Since my 
return to England I had been at some pains to bring 
them together. They were friendly enough when 
they met, and on the first occasion Nesta had told 
Morry that he would be welcome in Berkeley Square. 
She was quite at home with the Vochlears, had her 
own sitting-room, and could invite her friends. But, 
as far as I knew, Morry had never availed himself 
of her invitation. A doubt had come into my mind 
as to whether I had been right, six years before, 
when he told me about his family responsibilities, in 
supposing that he would have proposed marriage to 
Nesta if he had been in a position to do so, and 
intended me to pass the confidence on. I had done 
so, in a discreet manner, leaving Nesta to read between 
the lines. Since, various little straws had shown me 
that the wind still blew from Nesta to Morry, but 
there had been no sign that it blew the other way 
about. 

I saw her frequently. Lady Vochlear had told me 
to consider myself free of the house, and I availed 
myself of the privilege. Lady Y, as she was always 
called socially, interested me on her own account. 
She was French, and very much the grande dame , 
especially when outsiders were present and the con¬ 
versation was in English; but once or twice I had 
been admitted with Nesta dans son intimite, and to 
Nesta she always spoke French; then, unexpected 
flashes of wit and insight enlivened her languid fine- 



76 


MORRY 


ladyishness; there was occasionally even a suggestion 
of the gamine. She was evidently still in love with 
her husband, which, considering that they had been 
married for years and were almost indecently wealthy, 
seemed remarkable. I never achieved any degree 
of personal intimacy with either of them; there was 
nothing “sympathetic,” as the French say, between 
us; but I liked them for their manner to each other 
and to Nesta. They treated her absolutely as a friend. 
Lady V took her everywhere, and Nesta was having 
a very good time indeed, which had caused me to 
reflect that she might meet Mr. Somebody-Else any 
day. She had developed a nonchalant manner, and 
as to Morry, she never talked of him of her own 
accord, or asked any questions about him. 

“I saw the little girl, Dick.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes. Rather like her mother in the face; dispo¬ 
sition, too, I should say.” 

“In what way, as to the latter?” 

“Er—a curious combination of self-sufficiency and 
the desire to find guidance.” 

I did not like this at all. 

“She has had a very difficult life-problem to solve, 
Dick—the mother. She must have had extraordinary 
courage and tenacity to overcome her difficulties in 
the past; she shows the same qualities in relation to 
the present difficulty.” 

“Can you help her?” 

“ I have helped her already, in a way. Her idea, 
when she came to me, was to throw up her engage¬ 
ments and slip off with the child to America. She 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


77 


says that there Garavan could not interfere with her. 
I advised against that.” 

“Why?” 

“Because the child would lose the benefit of the 
settlement, and that is not right. It is, in itself, a 
good thing for the little girl.” 

I wondered. 

“Besides, I do not despair, although I do not see 
my way clearly yet, of inducing the court not to 
make the usual order that the child is to stay with 
the father periodically.” 

Morry rose, and walked about, a thing he rarely 
did when he was talking. 

“It is an abuse of the process of the court, Dick. 
I shall not permit it to succeed if I can prevent it. 
I do not believe that Garavan really cares about the 
child at all. I believe that his real object is to regain 
his discarded mistress—because she has become 
famous. He has hit on the plan of using the child 
as a lever. That ought not to be.” 

He faced me suddenly; I found myself gazing into 
his eyes; deep in each fur-black iris glowed a tiny 
orange spark. 

I had never seen this phenomenon before. It almost 
frightened me. There was something terrific chained 
inside Morry—something primeval. 

Arriving next morning at chambers at half-past 
nine, I found Isola Bella, with her'child, a maid, and 
a solicitor named Anson, waiting in the room I used. 
After greetings, I asked the little girl her name. 

She answered me boldly: “Lynette. And what’s 
yours?” 


78 


MORRY 


I sat down, took a sheet of blue foolscap, and 
folded it in a certain way. Then I picked up the 
bust of Blackstone which ornamented the mantelpiece, 
put it on the corner of the table nearest Lynette, and 
said: 

“What do you think of that old gentleman?” 

She looked at the bust, then raised her eyes to mine 
mockingly. 

“He looks very serious, doesn’t he? Now then” 
—I popped the paper cap on his head. 

Lynette instantly became solemn. After a pause, 
she recited lugubriously: 

“Mr. Smarty 
Gave a party. 

Nobody came.” 

Isola Bella smiled her mechanical smile. 

Do you know the kind of eyes that hold the dusk? 
Isola Bella and her daughter had eyes of that kind. 
Not only the iris, but the white of the pupils, the soft 
black eyelashes and eyebrows, had an effect of dusky 
greyness. I have heard such eyes described as “hav¬ 
ing been put in with smutty fingers”; the description 
is a bad one because it conveys the idea of an un¬ 
natural darkening of the eyelids and eye-sockets due 
to ill-health or make-up. There was nothing of that 
sort about the eyes then raised impishly to mine, or 
in the mother’s; the suggestion was rather of twilight 
in some faery land, lurkings of the unknown in 
shadows, a vague threat. 

Isola Bella and Anson were presently summoned 
into Morry’s room. I was making a dragon out of 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


79 


black and red sealing wax, and Lynette was watching 
—she was interested in this—when they returned, 
Morry with them. He said: 

“Will you come with us, Dick?” 

We went across to the Law Courts. Garavan, his 
solicitor, and a barrister named Colquhoun were 
already there. Garavan was a buck of a fellow with 
a superficial geniality of manner. He greeted me, 
and it struck me then that he was one of those men 
who are agreeable enough until they are crossed, but 
to whose malevolence there is no limit when anyone 
opposes their desires. 

The judge was the best type of man who could be 
chosen for such a purpose: kindly, wise, experienced 
in the kinks and twists of human nature. He ex¬ 
changed a few words with Isola Bella and Garavan, 
who were presented by their respective counsel, and 
talked for five minutes to Lynette. She responded 
perkily. 

“I think it will he best for the child to be in 
another room,” said the judge when he had satisfied 
himself as to what manner of scrap of humanity 
Lynette was. “Is there anyone to take charge of 
her?” 

“I brought her nurse,” replied Isola. The nurse 
rose. 

“Very sensible of you.” 

The nurse took the child out, and as the door closed 
the judge remarked: 

“A bright little girl.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” replied Isola humbly. “I 
have done my best.” 


80 


MORRY 


“Now as to this application. You wish the child 
to be under the guardianship of the court?” 

He addressed Garavan. There are no indispensable 
formalities on these occasions. The judge conducts 
the proceedings as he thinks fit. 

Garavan related his story. He had been very much 
attached to Isola Bella. They had separated ami¬ 
cably. He had never had the smallest reason to 
suppose that she had a child by him. 

“When did you learn of it?” 

“Three months ago. I was told by someone who 
knew her in England that she had a daughter six 
years old. I suspected that the child was mine; I 
went to the house, and the truth was admitted.” 

Isola shook her head. In response to the judge’s 
look, she told her story. 

Garavan contradicted her as to the amount of 
money she had received. 

“It was five thousand dollars I gave you, not one 
thousand.” 

“One thousand,” persisted Isola. 

The judge said: “This happened seven years ago. 
It is regrettable—no doubt you both regret it now. 
There are things in the lives of all of us which we 
regret. We cannot undo them; but we can mitigate 
the ill-consequences of them. What I have to decide, 
and you must help me to decide right, is the best 
course to take in the interest of the child. It is your 
duty, as the parents, to assist me. You, madame— 
do you intend her to follow your profession?” 

“Not necessarily. She has learned to dance, of 
course.” 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


81 


“Naturally. You make a considerable income by 
your work?” 

“Yes, now.” 

“Have you provided for her education?” 

“She has a very good governess. When she is a 
little older, I intend to send her to the best school I 
can find.” 

“In England?” 

Isola hesitated. “I have not yet decided. It 
depends on where I am at the time.” 

“You must take a broad view, I think. Your pro¬ 
fession has its disadvantages, and one of them is, 
as I infer, that you cannot always live in the same 
place. If it can be avoided your daughter should 
not be dragged about with you during those years in 
which her character will be largely formed for life.” 
He turned to Garavan. “You wish the child to remain 
in England?” 

“Yes. I wish to see her sometimes.” 

The judge reflected. “I'am disposed to make the 
order placing the child under the wing of the court. It 
can do no harm, I think.”—To Isola: “You will have 
to notify the court if you change your residence. 
Also, before you send the little girl to school, an 
application should be made, so that the choice of 
school may be approved. In the meantime, write 
me a line, and give me the name of the governess, 
and her references.—Now as to the question of the 
child going to stay with the father.” He addressed 
Garavan: “You are a bachelor. Who looks after 
your household?” 

Garavan said he had a housekeeper, a most respec- 


82 


MORRY 


table woman who had been in the service of several 
good families. 

“I hope your lordship will not say Lynette must 
go to Henley,” exclaimed Isola in an agitated tone. 
“I have tried to keep her from fast people. I have 
done my best not to let her come in contact with any¬ 
thing of that sort.” 

The judge raised his eyebrows. “Do you mean to 
imply that Mr. Garavan leads a fast life?” 

“Yes, I do,” replied Isola courageously. “He is 
a bad, wicked man. I don’t want Lynette to have 
anything to do with him, any more than I will have 
anything to do with him myself. I have told him so 
over and over again. I did not want his five thousand 
pounds for Lynette—now.” 

She spoke very bitterly, and it was impossible to 
doubt her sincerity. 

“I can understand,” said the judge gently, “that 
you nourish a certain resentment against Mr. Garavan 
on account of his conduct in the past. I express no 
opinion as to which of you is correct as to certain 
details connected with your former relation on which 
your recollections are not in accord; there may be a 
lapse of memory on either side. But when you say 
that Mr. Garavan is a bad man, and that he now leads 
a fast life, do you know that to be true?” 

“I am sure it is true.” 

“Have you any evidence of it?” 

Isola hesitated. I suppose that Morry had warned 
her, and if so she had already transgressed on to the 
forbidden ground. She could not resist going fur¬ 
ther; hut she did it very cleverly. 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


83 


“Everyone says so, my lord. When he knows I am 
going to appear at a reception, he contrives to get 
himself invited. Then he persists in talking to me, 
and because I am there partly as a guest, I cannot be 
openly rude and make a scene. People have warned 
me afterwards to be careful not to have anything to 
do with him, and, above all, not to go to his house. 
He gives large parties there, especially on Sundays, 
and friends of mine have supposed, when they saw 
him talking to me, that he might be asking me to go 
there and dance. They told me I should regret it 
if I did.” 

The judge weighed this—and her. 

“I can tell you the names of some of those people, 
if you wish.” 

“I do not think that is necessary. What do you say 
to this, Mr. Garavan?” 

Garavan protested that he had never followed her 
deliberately. When he happened to be somewhere 
and she appeared, he had shown ordinary friendli¬ 
ness. As to the rest, he supposed there must be silly 
gossip going on. There was nothing in it. He only 
entertained his friends as other people did. He gave 
the names of some of his guests; and added: “Your 
lordship will see that such people would not come 
to my house if there were any justification for what 
madame has been led to believe.’/* 

“That would seem to be so,” replied the judge 
thoughtfully. He addressed Garavan’s counsel: “I 
do not specially wish to hear you, Mr. Golquhoun, but 
if you have anything to say-” 

Colquhoun, in a temperate manner, said that men 



84 


MORRY 


in his client’s position were almost inevitably the 
targets of scandal. Probably, if Mr. Garavan invited 
the same lady to his house twice within six months, 
some people would make a story out of it. 

The judge turned to Morry. “Mr. Abramson?” 

“If I may ask my learned friend’s client one or 
two questions. 

“Certainly.” 

“You have a good many friends, Mr. Garavan?” 

“Yes, I suppose I may say I have.” 

“You entertain them chiefly at Henley?” 

“Yes, chiefly.” 

“Does this happen more or less all the year 
round?” 

“More or less. I am sometimes away.” 

“But when you are at home, you usually have 
people staying with you?” 

“Yes, generally.” 

“If the child came to stay with you, would you 
shut her up, keep her away from your friends?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“You would wish her to mix among them?” 

“Sure.” 

“If one of your guests asks you ‘Whose child is 
this?’ what are you going to say?” 

The question slipped out in the same easy, con¬ 
versational tone as the others. I don’t believe any 
of us saw, for a second or so, that it hit the weak 
spot. 

Garavan did not answer. His mouth opened, but 
no words came. He flushed, and his eyes became 
fishy. 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


85 


66 ‘Oh, a by-blow of mine by Isola Bella,’ ” sug¬ 
gested Morry. “That was what you had in your 
mind to say, was it not?” 

I was aghast at his audacity, and expected an 
instant reproof from the judge. None came. The 
judge was watching Garavan keenly. The fellow’s 
face and neck were a dull red. He stared at Morry 
savagely, tried to say something coherent by way of 
denial. But he could not successfully deny that he 
had meant to boast of his parentage. 

“I submit that your lordship should not make any 
order in the second respect,” said Morry. 

“I agree with you, Mr. Abramson,” replied the 
judge drily. 

We were a triumphant party as we walked out of 
the Law Courts, although verbal expression of our 
triumph was forbidden to us because Lynette and the 
maid were there. Isola said something to Morry in 
a low voice, and looked up at him as she did so; I 
did not catch the words, but I did not like the look. 
Her glance made me think uncomfortably of some 
strange kind of tendrils bearing delicate poisonous 
blossoms. 

We separated. Morry said: 

“Dick, I want to invite Madame Isola Bella to 
dinner on Sunday. Are you free?” 

“You want me too?” 

“Oh, yes, old fellow. You suggested the question 
that bowled that beauty out.” 

“I?” 

“Certainly. You said that you did not believe 
Madame Isola Bella was his mistress, because if she 


86 


MORRY 


had been he would have bragged about it. That gave 
me the idea.” 

“I’ll come, if you want me.” 

“Splendid. What about a fourth? We want 
another lady.” 

The devil prompted me to say: “Cockles?” 

Morry did not jump at the suggestion. There was 
a perceptible interval before he remarked: 

“Ah, yes. Would she come, do you think?” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

“Will you ask her?” 

“Ask her yourself,” came to the end of my tongue, 
but I did not say it. I was afraid it might involve 
Morry in an explanation which he did not wish to 
make. 

Nesta’s nonchalance was more marked than usual 
when I gave her the invitation. I explained that 
Isola was a client for whom Morry had done some¬ 
thing exceptionally clever, and this was a celebration 
of his success. 

“Where is it to be, Dick?” 

“At Romano’s.” 

“What time?” 

“Eight.” 

The dinner-party was not a success, although each 
of us did his or her best to make it so. Morry was 
genial, and lively for him; he told anecdotes, and 
told them well. Isola was unusually smiling and 
looked very attractive in her diaphanous dark gauzes 
and outlandish ornaments; she was the first woman 
in London to wear “artistic” bead necklaces. Nesta 
looked as sweet and fresh and pretty as she had done 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


87 


at nineteen; she was unfailingly gracious and charm¬ 
ing, and chatted familiarly to Isola about people 
and things of the hour. They had met before, I 
learnt; Isola had danced at the Vochlears’. But, 
somehow, Nesta made Isola seem common. Perhaps 
she couldn’t help it; she was a gentlewoman by birth 
and upbringing, and Isola wasn’t; but it did strike me, 
thinking it over afterwards, that Nesta had been just 
a shade too perfectly sweet to Isola, and that Isola 
knew why, and that accounted for the way in which 
she annexed Morry when the party was over. 

“You are going to take me home, aren’t you?” 

They were standing together in the vestibule, and 
Isola was looking into Morry’s face. Suddenly I 
knew why that woman was so dangerous. The warning 
that lurked in her dusk-filled eyes was the oriflamme 
of a sex-antagonism that has nothing to do with dis¬ 
abilities; she was of the type fundamentally hostile 
to the male, that is impelled to torture husband or 
lover as soon as, and for as long as, he is safely 
snared. 

“There is something I wish to consult you about,” 
added Isola insistently, when Morry hesitated. “I 
have a very good offer from America.” 

She had her way: Morry left Nesta to me. 

“Let’s walk,” said Nesta. She slipped her arm 
through mine, and was talkative going down the 
Strand, chaffing about my prediction for weird 
females. She affected to believe that I was epris of 
Isola, because I had been flirting with Isola mildly of 
intention. But before we reached Charing Cross 
she had fallen silent, and did not speak again until 


88 


MORRY 


1 


we were close to Berkeley Square. Then she insisted 
that I should come in for a few minutes. We went 
up to her sitting-room, and she electrified me by 
saying: 

“Dick, do you remember proposing to me just 
before we left Mirfield?” 

I winced inwardly, and remarked that I had not 
proposed to so many girls as to be unable to recall 
every occasion. 

“Did you mean it?” 

“Yes.” 

“You were not really in love with me.” 

“I thought I was.” 

“Have you changed your mind?” 

I stared at her. “What are you getting at?” 

“Be frank, Dick. You were willing to marry me 
then. Are you now?” 

“Don’t be silly. You don’t want to marry me.” 

“I will, if you like,” said Nesta. But she turned 
her face away. 

I went to her, took her by the shoulders, and gave 
her a mild shaking. She faced me. 

“Why shouldn’t we? Is there anybody else?” 

That was a difficult question to answer. My hesi¬ 
tation answered it for Nesta. 

“Can’t you marry her?” 

I said I could never marry her. 

Nesta regarded me. “Is she your mistress?” 

“No.” I was thankful I could say it truthfully. 

“Then yours is a hopeless case too.” 

The “too” was heart-rending. I found no words. 

“Why shouldn’t we?” repeated Nesta presently. “I 


THE ORANGE SPARK 


89 


like you very much, and I know you like me. Aunt 
Betsey will give me two thousand if I marry you, 
and let us have the Dower House at Markhamsted 
to live in. She told me so.” 

She had told me so. It had become a fixed idea 
with Aunt Betsey that Nesta and I should make a 
match. 

I said that people ought not to marry unless they 
really loved each other. Nesta talked about com¬ 
panionship. I retorted that we weren’t sixty. Then she 
broke down. 

“I’ve waited and waited and he doesn’t care. He 
did care at one time, but I knew he couldn’t afford to 
marry me then, he had as good as told me so, and you 
wrote to me about his having to carry his family on 
his back. Since then, it’s died out. I thought before 
I came home that it was being swallowed up by his 
ambition, and I thought that a bad thing for him, 
so, since I’ve been back, and you’ve been back and 
given me chances, I’ve made up to him as much as 
a decent woman can. I hoped he would wake up. He 
has waked up at last, but he wants that hateful 
entichee ” (tainted woman). 

I was hot and embarrassed. I tried to comfort her. 

“You are exaggerating. Morry seems to be inter¬ 
ested in her, I admit, but it is probably only a sympa¬ 
thetic interest.” 

“Stuff!” said Nesta. “I came to-night to make 
sure.” 

“He has an immense fund of common sense,” I 
argued. 

“Then why run after her? She won’t make him 


90 


MORRY 


happy. Why do men run after such women, Dick?” 

I could not tell her that. But she knew. 

“I would make myself like her, if I could. Do you 
think she cares for him?” 

“I think she is genuinely attracted.” 

“Yes. I thought so too. She might have married 
well twice during this last six months. That vacuous 
little St. Marsten was raving about her: he has any 
amount of money. So has the other man—Lamp- 
leigh, a stockbroker. Neither cared a straw about 
her having a child. But she wouldn’t look at either 
of them. That kind of woman must have a real man 
to twine round and strangle—parasite!” 

I did my best to persuade Nesta to believe that 
life always holds the possibility of happiness, that 
it would be rash to spoil her chance of it because 
she could not marry the man she wanted. She re¬ 
mained unconvinced. 

“I shall marry the first man who asks me,” was 
her final declaration. I went away with a heavy 
heart. 


CHAPTER VI 


Guilty or Not Guilty? 

The following months were a time of tribulation 
for me as far as my two chief friends in London 
were concerned. In other ways they promised well. 
One of my plays was tried for a week at a seaside 
resort, preparatory to production in London. I be¬ 
came interested in a repertory theatre in the North, 
which produced another. Consequently I was very 
busy, and ceased to go to chambers except casually. 
When I did go, Morry sometimes fished. 

“Do you know Lady Harrington, Dick?” 

“I do.” 

“She is holding a reception next Thursday. Per¬ 
haps you have a card for it.” 

“I have.”—Isola Bella was going to dance. 

“Could you get me one?” 

Nesta became engaged to O’Donovan Mack. 

He was of my year at Christ Church, and for a time 
I had fallen under the spell of his brilliancy. During 
our first Christmas vacation he went to stay with 
relatives near Mirfield, and I invited him over. My 
father was delighted by his desultory, flashing talk; 
my sisters and Nesta succumbed to his special fasci¬ 
nation for women. He had a way of looking at them 
out of his frosty blue eyes as if they were marionettes. 
I ceased to cultivate him soon after, because I dis¬ 
liked some of the amusements in which he indulged. 
One of them was to invite a boofer lady to supper, 
91 


92 


MORRY 


induce her to undress, and then sketch her. The 
sketches ornamented his rooms. They were exceed¬ 
ing clever, as were his caricatures of Oxford nota¬ 
bilities. Later, he went in for painting, and became 
the idol of a coterie in Chelsea. While I was abroad 
he attained celebrity for portraits startling in their 
revelation of the worst sides of the sitter’s character. 
Chelsea proclaimed him a master, and every night 
he used to trail through the streets with a crowd of 
girls to a West End cafe, where he would sit and 
hold forth, while his admirers told each other how 
wonderful he was. I witnessed the symposium one 
evening, and the man I was with told me that the 
secret of O’Donovan Mack’s ascendancy over all these 
women was that he never had an affair with any of 
them. By the time I returned to England permanently 
he had ceased to spend his evenings in cafes, and went 
to the houses of the great instead. I met him several 
times at the Vochlears’. He was as witty as ever, 
but more bitter; he seemed to have acquired a con¬ 
tempt for everybody and everything. 

Nesta sparred with him, and it never occurred to 
me that they might marry until I saw in her sitting- 
room a sketch he had made of her. It was the most 
sincere piece of work I had ever seen of his. He had 
caught her friendly trick when she flung her little 
head sideways and upwards with a gay smile; and 
he had painted what he saw, without the subtly malig¬ 
nant distortions in which he usually indulged. 

After that I was not surprised when she told me 
they were engaged. She was quite unreadable about 
it; her manner was more nonchalant than ever. 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


93 


This was in May. They were married in June, 
and went to Italy. In July there was the devil to 
pay at Notting Hill. Sara urgently requested me to 
go and see her. I went. 

“Will you use your influence with Maurice? You 
are the only person who has any influence over him. 
He does not listen to me, father is afraid of him, and 
I simply dare not tell mother what he is contemplating. 
It would kill her. You know, of course?” 

I professed ignorance. 

“I should have thought you must have known. He 
is paying court to a dancer, a woman who shows her¬ 
self half-naked every night to hundreds of people, 
and who has an illegitimate child. She calls herself 
Madame Isola Bella. He actually spoke of inviting 
her here. I told him if she ever came into the house 
I should walk out of it.” 

“Was that wise?” 

“Surely you are not encouraging him!”—Sara fixed 
me with an angry glare. 

I said I wasn’t. I also said that in my view it was 
a man’s own particular and private business whom 
he chose to marry. 

“I am surprised to hear you talk in that way. It 
would ruin his career. No one would know him. 
And he is beginning to have highly-placed friends. 
Lady Harrington invited him to one of her parties, 
and last week the Countess of Shropshire.” 

My cards. The artful Morry had been flourishing 
them under Sara’s nose in order to account for 
evening-dress absences. I tried to persuade her that 
the best thing that can happen to a man is that he 


94 


MORRY 


should win the woman he wants. I did not believe 
this, but it seemed the thing to say in order to choke 
her off. I also told her that it would not do Morry a 
scrap of harm, socially or professionally, to marry 
Isola Bella. I did not say that the problem would 
be a psychological one between their two selves. 
Sara never quite forgave me. 

It was much worse when Mrs. Abramson was told, 
for, of course, Sara told her. She, too, asked to see 
me. Her deep affection for Morry made it a tragedy: 
all her pride in him was gone. “A heathen woman,” 
she called Isola Bella. The epithet seemed to me 
extraordinarily apt. 

“I often thought he would marry a Christian,” she 
moaned, the tears welling out of eyes in which the 
jollity was quenched. “I could have put up with 
that. So many of our people do it now. But a 
heathen woman!” 

“Has he said that he intends to marry her?” 

“No. But he has spoken of her, and he goes to 
see her every Sunday. Sara has no doubt about it. 
I could wish not to live to see it.” 

During this period Morry only mentioned Isola’s 
name to me once, a week or so after the dinner at 
Romano’s. He remarked that he had induced 
Madame Isola Bella not to treat for the offered 
American tour. 

August came. Morry went with his mother and 
Sara to the seaside. An annual holiday by the sea 
had been the event of the year for Mrs. Abramson 
prior to the bankruptcy, and it was a source of even 
greater pleasure to her when Morry restored it, pro- 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


95 


vided she had his company. It was to his love for 
her that I attributed the dilatoriness of his court¬ 
ship: I thought he wished to spare her as long as 
possible. 

I was detained in London, and one morning I 
received a letter from Isola. It contained six large 
sheets, and the gist of it was that another and even 
better offer had been made her from America. She 
wished to know whether it would not be possible for 
me to arrange matters so that she could accept and 
take Lynette. 

I rang her up, and told her that the question was 
quite beyond me. All I could say was that Abramson 
had expressed the opinion that the court would not 
grant permission for Lynette to be removed from the 
jurisdiction except for a limited period and under 
proper guarantees. 

“Yes, but that was when the order had only just 
been made. Don’t you think they would now?” 

I told her I had no means of forming any opinion, 
and I doubted if anyone could answer her question 
favourably. Morry would be back in a fortnight. 

“But I must answer at once, by cable. I can’t keep 
these people waiting.” 

I said that in any case there was no Chancery 
judge sitting, and would not be, as far as my knowl¬ 
edge went, until the term began in October. 

“My engagement here ends on September ninth, 
so what am I to do? The people who want me repre¬ 
sent the largest theatrical syndicate in the United 
States of America.” Isola’s tone suggested she would 
have liked very much to be in the United States of 


96 


MORRY 


America at that moment, and I sympathised with her 
desire. 

“You might accept the engagement, apply as soon 
as possible for permission to take Lynette, and if 
permission is refused, make arrangements to leave 
her here.” 

“Oh, no, I can’t do that.” She hung up. Somehow 
I knew that she was going to accept the engage¬ 
ment. 

I wrote to Morry, and he told me when he came 
back that he had written to her advising that in his 
opinion the court would probably give her permission 
to take Lynette out of England for six months, but not 
longer. 

Matters remained in this position, as far as my 
knowledge goes, until September twelfth, when I 
learned from a newspaper paragraph that Isola had 
sailed for New York on the previous day. I had to 
go to chambers that morning, and on going into 
Morry’s room found him reading a long letter. He 
put it down with a sigh. 

“Isola Bella has gone to America, Dick, and taken 
Lynette.” 

Technically, Isola was liable to imprisonment for 
contempt of court; but as long as she remained out 
of the jurisdiction, nothing could happen to her. 
Privately, I thought what she had done was for the 
best, certainly for herself, probably for Lynette as 
well. What’s wrong with the United States of 
America, anyhow? 

“She will have to purge herself of contempt when 
she comes back to England,” said Morry with another 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


97 


sigh. “Then Garavan may make difficulties for her.” 

It occurred to me that she might not come back, 
hut I did not like to say so: I thought that would be 
the best thing for everybody. 

Three months later there was a cablegram, ex¬ 
panded to half a column in the noisy papers, 
recounting the kidnapping of Isola Bella’s ten-year- 
old daughter while the mother was at the theatre. 
The child had been rushed to the landing-stage and 
put on board an outward-bound British liner in the 
nick of time. Cabins had been booked beforehand— 
one for a man whose name was not given, another 
for the child and a woman, presumably an attendant. 

The kidnapper, of course, was Garavan. American- 
like, he had taken a liberty with the laws of his for¬ 
mer country in order to get on the blind side of the law 
in his adopted one. He succeeded. On arriving he 
brought Lynette straight to London, and his solicitor 
presented her, together with the impeccable female 
travelling companion he had provided, to the court. 
He asked for an order placing Lynette in his custody 
pending further developments. It was granted in the 
absence of opposition; Morry, being without instruc¬ 
tions, could not appear. 

Isola threw up her engagement and came post¬ 
haste to England. Morry advised her to apply to the 
court to be purged of her contempt, consent to Lynette 
remaining in England in charge of some suitable per¬ 
son, and submit to Garavan being allowed to see the 
child occasionally. She agreed to this, and on the 
morning when the application was to be made Morry 
and Anson and I waited for her. 


98 


MORRY 


She came at the last moment. Her face was drawn 
and fixed, her eyes sombre. She looked unkempt, and 
I noticed that there was mud on her shoes. She came 
in without a word, and stopped just inside the door¬ 
way. 

“Come, come!” said Morry. “It isn’t as bad as 
that. The worst that will happen to you will be a 
lecture from the judge. But we must not keep him 
waiting. That would make a bad impression. The 
other people are sure to be punctual.” 

“He won’t be there,” said Isola in her lifeless voice. 
“I shot him last night.” 

Morry took a step towards her. “You shot Gara- 
van? Is he dead?” 

“I think so. They are crying a special edition in 
the street: ‘Murder at Henley.’ I didn’t buy one.” 

“Send for one, Dick. Quick as you can.” 

I went to the door instantly. As I was going out 
I heard Morry say to Anson: “I shall have to go 
across. Proper respect must be shown to the court.” 

I went for the paper myself, and never felt sicker 
than when I read a little paragraph in the stop-press 
which told me that a sensualist whom I had disliked 
was gone to face the great Judge. Returning, I met 
Morry, and conveyed the information by a nod. 

“Tell Anson. And—she must not be left alone 
even for an instant. Stay with her as well as Anson. 
Watch her.” His face was ashy-grey. 

Nothing happened while he was out. Isola asked 
no questions. Her graceful figure, drooping in a 
chair, was the incarnation of fatigue. I sent the junior 
clerk out to get a pot of tea and bread and butter. 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


99 


She drank the tea, and said: “Thank you.” Those 
were the only words she uttered. 

I left the room again as soon as Morry entered it. 
Half an hour afterwards he sent for a cab, and when 
it arrived he and Anson took Isola away. He came 
into my room for a second. 

“There is nothing you can do, Dick. Don’t wait, 
unless you have other matters to attend to.” 

My poor Morry! His face was awful. I thought it 
best to remain where I was. 

He came in again two hours later. 

“She intended to submit herself to the court, Dick, 
until yesterday afternoon. Then, a friend told her 
that Garavan was boasting of his victory and making 
a show of Lynette. Her friend said that Lynette 
danced in a nude state at his special entertainments; 
even worse things were hinted. Isola lost her head, 
and took the next train to Henley. She arrived at 
the house between nine and ten, and asked to see 
Garavan. She gave her own name—her real name. 
She was shown into the dining-room, where she found 
Garavan and eight or ten people having dinner. 
Lynette was dancing: she wore a dancer’s usual pro¬ 
tection at the middle, a short skirt, and a strip of 
transparent gauze round the bust. She was powdered 
and rouged, her hair had been treated with some 
preparation to give it a metallic sheen, and she had a 
wreath of poppies on her head.” 

He was wonderfully calm. 

“There was a scene. Isola does not remember what 
she said, except that she insisted Lynette should be 
given up to her there and then. Nor does she remem- 


100 


MORRY 


ber what Garavan said, except that he was angry with 
the servant who admitted her. I imagine neither of 
them listened to the other. Eventually, Isola caught 
up Lynette in her arms, and Garavan took hold of her. 
He said, as she quotes him: ‘Don’t start a rough 
house with me.’ What is ‘a rough house’?” 

“A physical struggle.” 

“Ah. Some of the guests interfered. They per¬ 
suaded Garavan and Isola to talk it over by them¬ 
selves; not a very prudent proposal, in view of the 
situation and their excited state, it seems to me. I 
gather that Garavan had been drinking. They went 
into the library together, Lynette being handed over 
to the housekeeper—not an unkind woman, Isola 
thinks, but presumably pliant. Lynette seemed to be 
fond of her. 

“Isola, alone with Garavan in the library, insisted 
on Lynette being restored to her on the spot. Gara¬ 
van refused, saying it was for the court to settle. He 
taunted her with having been fool enough to put her¬ 
self in the wrong, triumphed over her. He said he 
would bring her to heel yet, and do as he liked with 
her brat. She went mad, virtually—lost her self- 
control completely.” 

Morry paused for several minutes. 

“I cannot give you a clear picture of how it hap¬ 
pened, because I did not obtain one myself. First, 
Isola said, at that point, ‘So I shot him,’ without 
explanation or preface. I asked, how came she to 
have a weapon. She explained that when they lived 
together in America, Garavan several times threat¬ 
ened to kill her. On one occasion he actually pointed 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


101 


a pistol at her and swore he would blow her brains 
out there and then. She was terrified; she believed 
him to be capable of it. By the way, do you remem¬ 
ber my mentioning a man who knew that she was 
going to have a child?” 

“Yes: the man who can’t be found.” 

“He came in on the day Garavan tried, or threat¬ 
ened, to kill Isola. It will be most unfortunate if he 
cannot be found. He must be found, if possible.” 

Morry uttered the words energetically, and then 
resumed the passionless legal tone. 

“As Isola says, it occurred to her, just before she 
left her room at the hotel to go to Henley, that 
Garavan might try to use violence, and therefore it 
would be well to have a means of protecting herself. 
She had a pistol, a small, gilt-mounted automatic. It 
was already loaded. She put it in her handbag.” 

“Now as to the actual circumstances of Garavan’s 
death. I told you just now that at first she said 
simply: ‘So I shot him.’ After she had explained to 
me what I have just explained to you, she said: ‘He 
would have shot me if I hadn’t.’ I asked her what 
made her think so. She said he opened a drawer 
in a desk, and in it she saw a pistol; so she fired.” 

“Did he threaten her first?” 

“The point is not clear. That is as near as I have 
been able to get to the picture of what happened. 
After Garavan fell, Isola did not try to ascertain 
whether he was dead or not. She left the room 
immediately. No one appears to have heard the 
report of the pistol; I gather, a small-bore pistol of 
that type does not make much noise. At any rate, 


102 


MORRY 


no one interfered with her. She went to the house¬ 
keeper, and said that Mr. Garavan no longer objected 
to her taking Lynette away.” 

“She used these w r ords?” 

“She says so. The housekeeper allowed her to 
take Lynette, who meantime had been decently 
clothed, and put on coat and hat and outdoor shoes 
quickly. Isola says she buttoned the shoes.” 

“Extraordinary.” 

“Yes, isn’t it? It does not seem to have occurred 
to her that she had committed murder, or something 
near it. All that she could think of was that she had 
secured Lynette and must put her where she would 
be safe. She resolved to go to the lodgings where 
Lynette was bom; the landlady, although in poor 
circumstances, is reliable. She lives at Acton. Isola 
stayed there the night and then came here.” 

There was a silence. Morry walked about the 
room. 

“There is nothing to be done at present. The 
inquest will be a simple matter. Isola admits that 
she shot Garavan and refuses under legal advice to 
say more. There will be a verdict of wilful murder. 
We cannot help that. It would be the proper verdict 
for a coroner’s jury to return under the circumstances 
even if Isola were defended to the hilt: therefore, 
there is no purpose in trying to defend her. As to 
the police-court proceedings, I think I shall advise 
her to reserve her defence. She must be tried, and 
it will be best to retain a free hand.” 

“You will let me help you if I can?” 

“Of course. But there is nothing you can do at 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


103 


the moment. I must try to trace the missing New 
Yorker.” 

“Sure you don’t want me?” 

“Quite sure.” 

I did not think that Isola was in serious peril. 
There were so many extenuating circumstances that 
it seemed impossible anything worse could befall her 
than a short imprisonment. I had to go North to 
attend the rehearsals of another play which was being 
done by my repertory friends, and remained away 
until the day of the inquest, travelling that night to 
town. The report gave me misgivings. It appeared 
that Isola had neither submitted to Morry’s guidance 
when she returned to England, as she had led him 
to suppose, nor told him the truth when she gave her¬ 
self up. She had sent numerous letters and telegrams 
to Garavan, insisting that Lynette should be restored 
to her. She had been twice to Henley before the 
fatal day. On the first occasion she was admitted, 
and had an interview with Garavan which lasted 
nearly an hour. The servants overheard them quar¬ 
relling. Garavan turned her out of the house, and 
as she was leaving she used threatening words. The 
second time she was not admitted, and the same day 
she wrote a letter to Garavan containing the sentence: 
“I promised what I would do if you insisted on keep¬ 
ing her, and if you don’t let me have her back at 
once I shall keep my promise.” It looked as if she 
had “promised,” that is, threatened, to kill him. The 
jury might, in view of the provocation, find her guilty 
of manslaughter only; but even that would mean a 
long term of imprisonment. 


104 


MORRY 


I reached Clifford’s Inn about nine-thirty in the 
morning and telephoned to Duncan, asking him to 
let Morry know that I was back, and would come 
across if wanted. Just after twelve Morry came to 
the Inn. I knew at once that something had hap¬ 
pened. His eyes gave me a sharp pain at the heart. 
He put his hat on the table, and, without removing 
his overcoat, sat down and stared at the fire. 

“I have been to see her. I asked her for the truth 
—all the truth.” 

He dropped his head until his chin rested on his 
chest. 

“She told me everything, Dick. There were some 
things which I think you guessed, though I did not.” 

I held my peace. 

“It makes it doubly difficult to save her.” 

He fell silent. For over an hour he sat there, 
immobile, staring fixedly into the grate. I ordered 
some luncheon for him, and made him eat it. He 
reiterated his desire that I should attend to my own 
affairs, and went away. 

The case against Isola became still blacker during 
the proceedings before the magistrates. There was a 
quantity of new evidence, all tending to show that 
she had gone to Henley on the last occasion deter¬ 
mined to kill Garavan if he refused to give up 
Lynette; that made the fatal act murder, stark and 
unmistakable. Some of this evidence also proved 
Garavan to have been one of those abnormal beings 
who made it their occupation to play with vice: but 
that was valueless from the legal point of view. The 
scream-papers talked about “the unwritten law,” but 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


105 


the unwritten law has no validity in an English court. 
I was very unhappy. 

Two days before the trial at the Bailey, Morry sent 
for me. He knew that I could not be present in court 
on the first day, as I had to go North again, and 
could only get back for the second day. I had 
arranged to go to that as a spectator. 

Morry took me to Notting Hill. After dinner we 
retired to his den. Sara made no objection this time. 
Morry had thoroughly frightened her. 

He told me the authorities had been very fair; they 
had given him all the information he could reasonably 
expect. But it could hardly have been a more diffi¬ 
cult case to meet. Assembled in order of detail, the 
circumstances pointed to the conclusion that Isola had 
murdered Garavan deliberately. If that were so, 
there was no escaping the penalty. 

“She won’t be hanged, in any case.” 

“I am not sure even of that. Several times lately 
women have been let off with imprisonment when, 
according to many temperate-minded people, they 
ought, in the interest of the community, to have paid 
the full penalty. Slatterthwaite is not a blood-thirsty 
person by any means, but he shares that view. He 
said so not long before he became Home Secretary.” 

(If a jury return a verdict of guilty against a 
person charged with murder, the judge must sen¬ 
tence the prisoner to death—the punishment is pre¬ 
scribed by law—and execution follows automatically 
unless the Home Secretary thinks it advisable that 
the sentence should be commuted: if he does, he 
advises the King to exercise the prerogative of mercy. 


106 


MORRY 


There is, now, a possible appeal on technical grounds 
to the Court of Criminal Appeal; but there was none 
then.) 

Morry continued: “But she must not be condemned 
at all. She must be acquitted.” 

I tried to encourage him. “If she tells her story 
well, it will have a great effect on the jury.” By this 
time the act allowing accused persons to give evidence 
was on the statute-book, and I had assumed all along 
that Morry would rely on Isola herself. 

“I dare not put her in the box.” 

I was so much surprised that “Why not?” slipped 
out before I could stop it. I would have given much 
to recall the words—Morry looked at me so sadly. 

“Because, in cross-examination, she would be asked 
questions relating to her past. If she answered them 
truthfully, the jury would think her undeserving of 
credence; and I cannot allow her to go into the box 
with the intention of perjuring herself.” 

He paused. Then he went on: “That is one of my 
difficulties. If she could tell the story herself, it 
might save her. There is no doubt in my mind that 
the immediate cause of the impulse to pull the trigger 
was Garavan’s opening the drawer in which she saw 
a pistol. I can put that to the jury, but there is no 
evidence for it. It will have to be inferred from the 
fact that when Garavan’s body was discovered the 
middle drawer in the writing-desk was open and the 
pistol visible.” 

It seemed to me the weakest case I ever heard of. 

Morry got up and walked about. “Another point 
which troubles me is that there is no proof the pistol 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


107 


was Garavan’s. No one knew he had it. I don’t 
think Hanson will go so far as to suggest that Madame 
Bella brought it with her and put it into the drawer 
after the shooting, but he may think it his duty to ask 
the various witnesses who might have known he had 
it whether they did know, and if so the jury will 
probably get the impression that there is a doubt 
about it.” 

He paused in the middle of the room, his head 
sunk on his chest, his hands in his trousers’ pockets, 
and remained so for several minutes. Then he de¬ 
livered himself of the following three and a half 
sentences: the third deserves to be written in gold in 
the annals of the English bar. 

“I cannot win this case either on the law or on the 
facts. Both are dead against me. I will not get up 
before a jury and talk nonsense about the unwritten 
law. But if I can lead Macallan into a long-winded 
summing-up-” 

Macallan was the judge who was to try the case. 
Morry knew him well, had often acted as his junior 
before he went on the bench. He was a big, bluff 
fellow and had been very effective in cases in which 
a stage beauty had lost her jewels, or something of 
that sort; but he had never acquired the power which 
most barristers perforce acquire, if they have it not 
as a natural gift, of improvising a clear, coherent 
statement in regard to difficulties and obscurities in 
the law. When he had to tackle legal problems unex¬ 
pectedly, he had a trick of saying the same thing over 
and over again in different words, which was con¬ 
fusing. 



108 


MORRY 


“There is one loophole for me, and only one. Now, 
then.” 

Bit by bit, with many hesitations, pauses, and much 
retracing of steps, Morry built up an argument. It 
was a legal one purely, professing to show that the 
killing was not murder. I marvelled. His ingenuity 
seemed limitless. He quoted against himself, as he 
went along, every conceivable objection that could be 
brought against his thesis: and, always, followed a 
seemingly sound answer to it. As a tour de force it 
was amazingly clever: but I did not think he could 
get it past an English judge to the jury. 

At midnight he said: “You must go, Dick. You 
are off to-morrow by an early train?” 

“No—two-thirty.” 

“Then come to the chambers in the morning, unless 
you have something you must do elsewhere. It may 
be that one or two further points will arise in my 
mind which I should like to put to you.” 

I promised to go. 

He had, however, nothing further to say to me 
the next day. I found him in his room, sitting staring 
at the table. He had a blue pencil in his hand, and 
it was beating “What-Shall-I-Do?” After some time, 
he said with a sigh: 

“I wish I could get in touch with Mr. Frederick 
Durnsen.” 

“Freddie Durnsen? What do you want Freddie 
for?” 

I have a cheap trick of speaking of people whom 
I do not know personally by their Christian names, 
much as the man you talk to on a bus speaks fami- 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


109 


liarly of politicians. Morry thought I was sinning on 
this occasion. 

“Durnsen is the man who came to the rescue when 
Garavan threatened Madame Bella’s life. She thinks 
he took Garavan’s pistol away from him.” 

I grabbed the telephone. “Why ever didn’t you 
mention his name before?—Hallo, Exchange! Ex¬ 
change!” 

“You know him?” 

“Gerrard two-o.—He was on legation at Peters¬ 
burg. I met him yesterday in the Strand. I was in 
a hurry, but I stopped for a moment to ask where he 
was staying. I meant to go and look him up last 
night, but you collared me.” 

“On legation!” exclaimed Morry bitterly. “And I 
communicated through the Foreign Office.” 

“My dear chap, the State Department wouldn’t 
know him. If they know the names of their ambas¬ 
sadors it’s a wonder.—Is that the Savoy? I want Mr. 
Frederick Durnsen, of New York. He will probably 
be in his room. All right, I’ll hold the wire.” 

“Is he a good fellow?” 

“All wool and a yard wide and then some.—Hallo! 
hallo! Is that you, Freddie? Hallo! Dick Youatt. 
Are you in bed? Well, you’ve got to get up, see? 
No—now—quick. Put on your clothes and come 
down to the Temple. What? Yes, quite mediaeval. 
Turn to the right out of Savoy Court, and keep 
right along till you come to the Law Courts. What? 
Idiot. Ask! Well, if you don’t understand the lan¬ 
guage of the English, there’s a thing sticking up 
in the middle of the street just opposite the door- 


110 


MORRY 


way leading into Middle Temple Lane. What? No, 
you fool, not a policeman. A sort of pedestal with 

a—a-” To Morry: “What is that thing they 

stuck up in place of Temple Bar?” 

“The griffin.” 

I had forgotten there was a griffin on it. One 
never looks at him, somehow.—Into the telephone: 
“It’s a tall pedestal, Freddie, with a griffin on top. 
Not a muffin—a griffin. Turn in at the archway 
and ask the porter to direct you to Abramson’s 
chambers. A-b-r-a-m-s-o-n. But, I say, you must 
come now. Never mind what for, you’ll find that 
out when you arrive. I’ll give you what for if you 
aren’t here in half an hour. You needn’t shave, 
you won’t meet any ladies.” 

“Grh-grh-grh-grh,” said a very sleepy voice at the 
other end of the wire. 

“Are you coming?” 

Silence. 

“Hallo! Hallo!” 

Silence. 

“Confound him! He’s fallen asleep with the re¬ 
ceiver in his hand. I don’t suppose he went to bed 
before four or five. I’ll fetch him.” 

Ten minutes later I was banging on Freddie’s door. 

“You are a fellow!” was his very English greeting. 
He relapsed. “Say, what’s bitten Daisy? I met you 
yesterday for the first time in years, and you said 
6 Howdy ’ polite-like and passed on with scarce a 
smile to cheer me on my lonely way. At ten a.m. 
this morning you ring up to tell me I must leap from 
my virtuous couch and come to a religious sanctuary 



GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


Ill 


to see a griffin. What is this you are giving the poor 
stranger?” 

“It has to do with Isola Bella, Freddie.” 

“Huh. I saw she had met up with trouble. But 
where do I come in?” 

“You knew her, years ago, didn’t you?” 

“I did.” 

“And Garavan?” 

“And Van.” 

“And something of their mutual affairs—their 
relations?” 

“Flag the rubberneck car,” said Freddie. He rose 
—he had been sitting on the edge of the bed, in his 
very smart pyjamas, with his abundant dark hair 
tousled over his forehead. He went into the adjoining 
bathroom, sprayed his head with eau-de-Cologne, en¬ 
dued himself into a dressing gown of surpassing silki¬ 
ness, brushed his hair, and returned into the bedroom. 
He took up a silver cedar-lined box filled with ex¬ 
pensive cigarettes and offered me one; he took one 
himself, struck a match, and we lit up. 

“What are you in this deck?” he inquired. 

“I devil for Abramson, Isola Bella’s lawyer.” 

“The devil you do.” 

“We want your evidence, Freddie.” 

“Well, you won’t get it.” 

“Be a sport, Freddie.” 

“Nix for mine. I am not going to be mixed up 
with that bunch again. The captions would do me 
good, wouldn’t they?—‘Freddie Durnsen Recalls His 
Clubman Days.’ ” 

“My dear chap, we simply must have your evi- 


112 


MORRY 


dence. I’m awfully sorry—I am, really—but we 
can’t do without you.” 

Freddie’s face relaxed no whit. 

“You must give it, Freddie, to-morrow or the day 
after. Why not give it to us now?” 

Freddie shook his head and continued to smoke 
his cigarette. 

“If you won’t give it willingly, we shall have to 
make you.” 

“How?” 

“Do you want to learn?” 

“Yes, I’d like to see the game played. I don’t 
know it.” 

I rose, went to the bedhead, and took up the tele¬ 
phone. 

“City 3392, please.” 

“Who are you connecting with?” inquired Freddie. 

“Wait a minute, old man.—Is that Abramson’s 
chambers? Duncan there? Duncan, Madame 
Bella’s case. Tell Anson to apply at once for a 
subpoena against Frederick Henry Durnsen, gentle¬ 
man, of the Savoy Hotel, and have it served as 
quickly as possible. Yes, Durnsen.” I spelt it. 
Duncan said he would. 

“Thank you so much for saying I was a gentle¬ 
man,” drawled Freddie. “But what is a subpoena?” 

“An order from the court, directing you to attend 
at the trial, and give evidence,” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

“You will find that you must care.” 

“Suppose I don’t go?” 

“The sheriff will send his officers to fetch you.” 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


113 


“Suppose I’m not here?” 

“You will be here.” 

“I might beat it, old sport.” 

“Unless you give me your word of honour that you 
will testify, before we leave this room, I shall ring 
up Scotland Yard and have you kept under obser¬ 
vation.” 

“What’s this Yard place?” 

“The City Hall—police headquarters.” 

“Oh-ho.” 

“Yes, sir, oh-ho. You will have plain-clothes men 
detailed to watch you. They will take care you don’t 
make a get-away, Freddie mine, also that the sheriff’s 
officers know just where to find you when they want 
you.” 

“Say, have you played this game before?” 

“No.” 

“You seem to know all about it.” 

“Yes, I do.” . 

Freddie took another cigarette. “There’s one little 
thing you’ve forgotten. I am a citizen of the United 
States of America, not a subject of the King of Eng¬ 
land.” 

“But you are on English soil, old son, and amen¬ 
able to the jurisdiction of the court as much as any 
British subject.” 

“Say, you seem to have it at your finger ends.” 

“You know all this as well as I do.” He did. 

“And one thing.” 

“Well?” 

“I’m a privileged person, buddy. Your sheriff’s 
officers can’t touch me.” 


114 


MORRY 


“You are not on legation in London. You told 
me yesterday you were only here for pleasure. There¬ 
fore, you are just a plain, unvarnished stranger 
within our gates, and as such we impress you in the 
cause of justice.” 

Freddie seemed impressed. 

“I’ll make a deal with you. I don’t want to come 
of my own accord because I started by saying I 
wouldn’t. Don’t force me to go back on my word. 
I’ll keep you posted as to where to find me, and I’ll 
say whatever you like when I come, provided you’ll 
send a Beefeater for me. Not a sheriff’s officer—a 
real Beefeater. You see, we have sheriffs in our 
country, one for each county, and they are mostly 
an ordinary lot. So that wouldn’t sound at all well 
—‘Freddie Durnsen in the Hands of the Sheriff’s 
Men.’ But ‘Freddie Durnsen Escorted by Beefeater 
to British Court’—say, you must arrange for me to 
be photographed.” 

“Sorry, but there’s nothing doing. Beefeaters only 
attend on the Lieutenant of the Tower, and the King.” 

“Is that so?” 

I assured him it was. 

“Well—will you show me a Beefeater?” 

“Yes. I was going north at two, but I’ll put it 
off till the five-thirty train, and take you to the Tower 
after lunch.” 

“Then, don’t shoot. Colonel. I’ll come down. I 
didn’t think you had so much sand, Dick. But what’s 
the fuss about? Isola is in no danger.” 

“She is, unfortunately.” 

“No jury would condemn her.” 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


115 


“A British jury would—and will, unless something 
near a miracle happens.” 

“Do you mean that?” 

“Sure. It is the reason for my being so keen to 
secure your evidence. It may just tip the scale.” 

“I wouldn’t have joshed if I had thought it was 
serious for her. I knew she would have to stand 
being magnesiumed unexpectedly by the Kodakers in 
court-” 

“That kind of thing isn’t allowed here.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

“No.” 

“But the jury would condemn a poor woman like 
that to death?” 

“Certainly they would.” 

“Huh. Now, what do you want me to say?” 

“I must not suggest anything to you. Abramson 
may put some questions; he probably will, but only 
to elicit what you know.” 

“Well, but what answers do you wish me to give? 
What’s the evidence he wants?” 

“We want you to tell the truth.” 

“The truth!” ejaculated Freddie, as if he had 
never heard the word before. “And you’re a pair of 
lawyers for the defence?” 

“That makes no difference in our country.” 

“Holy smoke!” Freddie meditated, threw away his 
cigarette, and said he would dress. 

He went into the bathroom, still ruminating. I 
overheard fragmentary mutterings, interspersed with 
remarks thrown at me. 

“You are waked up in the morning, after a thick 



116 


MORRY 


night—I like your Scotch whisky, Dick; it is a drink 
for Christians. My old aunt at Albany always said 
the Scots were pious—after a thick night, and are 
told you will see griffins on the streets. Griffins, not 
snakes.—Dick, is this griffin chained up, or in a cage, 
or how?—They don’t allow a criminal to be photo¬ 
graphed; they merely hang a perfectly innocent 
woman just because she killed a man.—Dick, about 
the griffin: do we need a gun? Have you yours 
with you?—And lawyers want you to tell the truth. 
To—tell—the—truth. I thought the English were a 
civilised people. I came back to the old home, 
almost a stranger.” 

The bath water put an end to his soliloquising. He 
appeared presently in a gorgeous bath robe, clean- 
shaved and very pink and fresh-looking—Freddie 
was always a wonder the morning after the night 
before—and demanded with reproachful eyes: 

“Dick, why treat me so unkindly? Don’t you 
remember all the services I rendered you in Peters¬ 
burg? Have you forgotten that girl with the astrachan- 
topped boots?” 

“Utterly.” 

“A man who could forget that girl would forget 
anything. Ring, and tell the bell-boy to bring two 
dry Martinis to refresh our memories. I can see 1 
shall need mine.” 

I ordered the cocktails, which came while he was 
dressing. Sprucely attired, he turned to me with an 
air of resolve. 

“Gimme the anaesthetic, and let’s get it over.” 

I handed him his cocktail, he gulped it down, and 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


117 


we went out. I tried to bring him to a sense of the 
seriousness of his errand. 

“All right, bo. I’ll be serious when the time comes. 
But I just dote on these toy buildings. London’s a 
pet.” He walked on. “There’s another roundsman 
anchored in the roadway. Why do they do it, Dick? 
I saw one the day I landed, and concluded he must 
be doing it for a bet. But, since, I’ve seen others. 
Have you gotten too many police, and want to thin 
them out by getting them run over?” 

I explained. 

“Huh. There’s a church bung in the middle of the 
avenue.” 

It was St. Mary-le-Strand. Presently we came in 
sight of St. Clement Danes. 

“Hully Gee, there’s another! Why clutter up the 
fairway with churches as well as roundsmen? And 
sawed-off churches like that?” 

“Sawed-off yourself!” I retorted. Freddie is a 
little fellow. “Dr. Johnson used to attend that church, 
and the nails on the front door have bits of skin 
under their heads—the skin of Danish pirates. 
According to tradition, it was one of my ancestors 
who ordered them to be flayed alive.” 

“It’s likely. I shouldn’t wonder if one of them 
was an ancestor of mine.” 

He had me there. A minute or two later: 

“Jumping Jehoshaphat, there is a griffin!” 

I had to drag him into the Temple. Ushered into 
Morry’s room, he remarked: 

“You’re the boss crimp, I judge? Well, here I am, 
shanghaied to rights. What might you want with me?” 


118 


MORRY 


Morry questioned him. Freddie can talk better 
English than I can when he chooses: I hoped he would 
to Morry, but he didn’t. In reply to Morry’s ques¬ 
tions he said that he knew Isola before she met Gara- 
van. Isola was one of the crowd, not a friend of 
his specially; they all went around in a bunch. He 
liked her, moderately. She was queer-tempered. 
Garavan joined the bunch later, and set Isola up in a 
flat. Garavan invited him to the flat. He went a 
number of times. 

“Did she ever ask you to go?” 

“Sure.” 

“Why?” 

“To cheer her up. She used to get the blues 
pretty badly, and I brightened her young life by 
fooling with the piano.” 

Freddie was a pianist whose real ability was often 
hidden by his unorthodox methods of treating the 
instrument. 

“Was that the only reason she ever asked you to 

go?” 

“Yep, except the time Van pulled a gun on her.” 

“Did he do that?” 

“Sure, he did. Hasn’t she told you of it?” 

Morry made the funny gesture with his head which 
he always made when people asked questions that were 
out of place. “I want you to tell me about it, Mr. 
Durnsen.” 

Freddie said that Garavan and Isola were always 
having rows. One day he (Freddie) received the 
fire-call from her and went around. Van was there, 
but not with her. She had locked herself in her 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


119 


bedroom, where the telephone was. She seemed 
scared for her life. She said he had pulled his gun 
on her. 

“Was he there when she told you this?” 

“Sure.” 

“Did he admit it?” 

Freddie reflected. “I can’t say that he did. But 
he didn’t deny it, you know. He had done it.” 

“You are convinced of that, in your own mind?” 

“Quite.” 

“Had she really been in danger, do you think?” 

Freddie replied that he could not say. 

“You formed no idea at the time?” 

“I didn’t think Van had intended to shoot her, if 
that’s what you mean. But I couldn’t say that I 
thought she had not been in any danger. With a 
man like that you can’t tell. He might have shot her.” 

“In other words, you think he was capable of it?” 

“Sure pop, he was.” 

“Now as to the circumstances of the break between 
them. Do you know anything about that?” 

Freddie said that Garavan got pretty sick with 
Isola. She nagged him after she knew that she was 
going to have a baby. 

“Did you know beforehand that there was a baby 
coming?” 

“Sure, I did. They had no end of discussions as 
to what was to be done.” 

“I see. Well?” 

“So at last Van sent her five thousand dollars and 
told her to go to a Maternity Home.” 

“Five thousand?” 


120 


MORRY 


“Yep.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I paid her the money.” 

“How came you to do that?” 

“Van asked me to do it for him. He didn’t want 
to see her again. He gave me a cheque on the Fourth 
National Bank: I cashed it, and handed the kid fifty 
hundred-dollar notes.” 

Morry reflected. “Can you say, of your own knowl¬ 
edge, that Garavan was in the habit of carrying a 
pistol?” 

“Nope.” 

“Had he one?” 

“Sure.” 

“Did you ever see it?” 

“Yep.” 

“When?” 

“On the day Isola said he had pulled it on her.” 
“How came you to see it?” 

“I made him give it to me. The poor kid was 
scared to come out of her bedroom until he did.” 
“Did you give it back to him?” 

“Yes ” 

“When?” 

“Some days after—about a week, I think.” 
“Would you know it again if you saw it?” 

“I think so.” 

“Is this it?” 

“Yes,” said Freddie. “Say, you’re smart.” 
Morry told me afterwards that he had borrowed 
the pistol from the authorities while I was out. 

On the first day, Sir Rodney Hanson, for the prose- 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


121 


cution, opened with a succinct account of the events 
leading up to Garavan’s death. He was forcible on 
the point that if the evidence bore out his statement, 
the killing was a murder. The evidence given did 
bear out his statement. Morry, in cross-examination, 
contented himself with bringing out details, especially 
those of the scene when Isola was shown into the 
dining-room. This looked like playing up to the plea 
of “the unwritten law”; but I knew that he was really 
trying to get it into the minds of the jury that Isola 
must have been greatly excited; he needed to do so 
in order to justify his contention that she fired in 
self-defence. 

It was after ten when I arrived in London on the 
second day. I drove straight to the Bailey. In the 
corridor was a crowd waiting for chances of admis¬ 
sion, but Duncan had warned the policemen on duty 
at the door, and a way was made for me through the 
packed alleyway at the side. Rennett, the junior 
clerk, had kept a place under the jury-box. He 
vacated it, and I sat down. 

Freddie was in the witness-box. Morry was finish¬ 
ing the examination-in-chief, and asked Freddie to 
identify the pistol found in the drawer. 

Freddie did so satisfactorily. 

Morry was apparently about to sit down when he 
resumed his questioning position and asked casually: 

“Oh, Mr. Durnsen—just tell the court what ‘a 
rough house’ means.” 

“Hit me, and I’ll show you,” said Freddie tersely. 
The jury smiled. 

“A physical struggle?” 


122 


MORRY 


“That’s it.” 

Morry sat down. 

Sir Rodney Hanson cross-examined on one point 
only. 

“You told my learned friend, in regard to the 
occasion on which you took into your possession the 
pistol you have identified, that when the prisoner re¬ 
counted her plight to you over the telephone you said 
in reply: ‘He’s crazy.’ What did you mean by that?” 

I saw that Freddie had made good. In a tight place 
give me an American every time. 

He tried to get away with it. “I meant he was 
crazy mad.” 

“Implying that he was out of his mind?” 

This was awkward for Freddie. 

“Well, just mad.” 

“I believe the words ‘crazy’ and ‘mad’ are used in 
a different way on your side of the Atlantic, Mr. 
Dumsen, from that in which they are used here. That 
is the ambiguity I want to clear up. Did you mean 
that you thought the deceased was a dangerous mad¬ 
man?” 

“I can’t say that.” 

“You meant that he was very angry?” 

“If you like to put it that way.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Durnsen.” 

Freddie had done his utmost, but Sir Rodney had 
been too sensible of his duty to let the impression 
remain that Garavan was held by his friends to be 
an irresponsible lunatic. 

Morry rose to address the jury. 

“Gentlemen of the jury. The task which has fallen 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


123 


to your lot and the task which has been placed upon 
me are alike less complicated than such tasks usually 
are in cases of so grave a character. My learned 
friend who leads for the prosecution described the 
events leading up to the fatal act, as far as they are 
known to him, with exemplary fairness. The wit¬ 
nesses called for the prosecution gave their evidence 
conscientiously. You would notice that I only put 
to them, in cross-examination, questions tending to 
elucidate more clearly certain points which, no doubt 
unintentionally, had been left obscure. My learned 
friend had not, when he addressed the court, the 
advantage of knowing the additional facts supplied 
by Mrs. Nollis and Mr. Dumsen. It may be that if 
he had known them, he would have told the story 
differently. 

“Mr. Durnsen’s evidence alone is so important that 
it puts a totally different complexion on the case. 
I shall try to place it in its proper light presently. 
My learned friend accepted it, together with the evi¬ 
dence of Mrs. Nollis, in exactly the same way as I 
accepted the evidence of his witnesses. He merely 
put a question to Mr. Durnsen with the object of 
clearing up a trifling verbal ambiguity, and the ques¬ 
tions he put to Mrs. Nollis had not, if I may say so 
with respect, anything to do with the case at all. 
It does not matter in the least whether what Mrs. 
Nollis told the prisoner was wholly true, partly true, 
or wholly untrue. The only thing which matters is, 
that the prisoner believed what she was told, and that 
it had the effect of agitating her.” 

Mrs. Nollis was the lady who had called on Isola 


124 


MORRY 


and poured horrible stories into her ears as to Gara- 
van’s treatment of Lynette. Morry had so contrived 
his questions to her as to give the jury an inkling of 
the nature of the stories, and Sir Rodney Hanson had 
afterwards elicited from Mrs. Nollis an admission 
that she had only been repeating gossip. 

“Therefore, we have this unusual position—the 
facts are agreed. You have not to consider the diffi¬ 
cult problem which is almost always a part of cases 
so serious as this—the problem of how far you believe 
the different witnesses, whether you ought to prefer 
this part of the evidence to that. No such difficulty 
confronts you. The facts are there, and you only 
have to make up your minds as to what they show 
the motive of the prisoner to have been when she 
pointed her pistol at Mr. Garavan and pulled the 
trigger. Nor have I a difficulty which usually pre¬ 
sents itself to counsel charged with the onerous duty 
of defending a person accused of the awful crime of 
deliberately, wilfully, taking the life of another. It 
is not necessary for me to endeavour to explain away 
parts of the evidence, to persuade you that this and 
that which is alleged is not true. I admit that what 
is said as to the prisoner’s actions, so far as there is 
direct evidence of them, is true. I have no wish to 
dispute it, because, on the facts stated, it is clear 
to me that the prisoner did not murder Mr. Garavan. 
She killed him. But she did not intend to do so.” 

Morry was at his best—very quiet, and the more 
forceful for being so quiet. 

“That is where my learned friend and I differ. He 
draws certain inferences from the facts, and his infer- 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


125 


ences seem to show that the prisoner is guilty of 
murder. I, from the same facts, draw opposing infer¬ 
ences—inferences which show that the prisoner is not 
guilty of murder. The difference between us in that 
respect is sharp, and it constitutes the issue. That 
is the question you have to decide—did the prisoner’s 
action amount to murder, or not? I do not think I 
shall have much difficulty in showing you that it did 
not. 

“First, what are the facts? You only heard a 
resume of part of them from my learned friend, be¬ 
cause, as I remarked, he did not know them all. Now 
we have the whole story before us, and I think all in 
this court, no matter what their duties may be, or 
where their sympathies may lie, will agree that never 
was a sadder story unfolded in a court of justice. 
The pity of it! Oh, the pity of it! Here was this 
young man, healthy, wealthy, a bachelor, living a 
life of pleasure in New York. Here was this girl of 
seventeen, little more than a child, adrift on the 
world through no fault of her own, compelled to 
earn her living as best she could. She was earning 
it honestly. Mr. Durnsen’s evidence has made it 
perfectly clear to all of us, if any of us had ever 
doubted it, that the woman who now stands in the 
dock as the outcome of her acquaintance with Mr. 
Garavan was, when she first met him, a pure girl. She 
permitted herself to enter into a kind of relationship 
with him which all right-thinking persons reprobate. 
Mr. Durnsen told us why. The prisoner loved the 
deceased. She gave him the best a woman has to 
give—the love of her dawning womanhood.” 


126 


MORRY 


Sceptical as I had always been in regard to Isola’s 
virtues, I felt an uncomfortable smarting of the eye¬ 
lids. It was the voice, the deep sad tone, that did it. 

Morry went on with his rearrangement of the facts, 
making full use of Freddie (Old gold-heart, I won¬ 
der where you are as I write? I never had a chance 
to tell you what I thought of you after I read the 
full report, but if you did tell some lies that day, I 
don’t believe they are recorded anywhere else). It 
was after one o’clock when he brought the narrative 
down to the fatal day. Then he said: 

“The prisoner’s actions on that day, as far as they 
are known to us, are so important in the case that 
they require most careful scrutiny. In recounting 
them I shall be obliged to go into detail, and that will 
take time. As we shall shortly have to adjourn, I 
shall now content myself with reminding you of the 
heads as brought out by my learned friend in his 
opening speech, supplementing them only as to points 
which emerged during the examination of the wit¬ 
nesses.” 

The clock was at five-and-twenty minutes past one 
when he reached the moment when Isola pulled the 
trigger. Then: 

“We have to adjourn. Before you leave the court 
I want to put two questions to you for consideration 
during the interval. The case will necessarily occupy 
your thoughts, and it may be well to have a focussing 
point. The questions are these: When did the prisoner 
make up her mind to shoot Mr. Garavan, and what 
caused her to make it up? She must have come to 
a decision at some time. Obviously, she had not done 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


127 


so a few days before, when she was at Henley: on 
that occasion they were alone together for three- 
quarters of an hour, and she must have had more 
than one opportunity to shoot him if she had intended 
it. 

“Did she make up her mind before she came to the 
house on the fatal evening? Weigh the circumstances. 
She went to the front door, gave her name, and asked 
to see him as any ordinary caller might have done. 
Was it when she was shown into the room where Mr. 
Garavan was entertaining his friends? She might 
then have shot him before anyone could prevent her: 
but she made no attempt to do so. Was it when he 
laid hands on her because she caught up her child 
in her arms? Then why didn’t she do it? Was it 
when she went into the library? Again, then why 
not do it? It was nearly twenty minutes afterwards 
that she actually committed the fatal act. Was it 
then that she made up her mind—the moment before 
she pulled the trigger? 

“That is the first question—When did the prisoner 
make up her mind to shoot Mr. Garavan? The second 
question is: When she did make it up, what caused 
her to do so? There must have been an immediate 
cause, because, as I pointed out, clearly she did not 
intend to shoot him when she went to Henley the first 
time, and her grievance as to her child being kept 
from her was in full force then. So it was not that. 
What was it? I submit these two questions. When 
did she make up her mind, and what led her to make 
it up at the particular moment when she did so?” 

We adjourned. Morry’s object in this was, as he 


128 


MORRY 


explained to me during the interval, to lead the jury 
to see that there was no evidence of Isola’s having 
made up her mind at any definite time beforehand, 
and then leave them to draw the inference that she 
made it up at the last moment because Garavan was 
trying to get at his pistol: the idea being that the 
jury would come to these conclusions immediately, 
and in the half-hour before we resumed would get 
them firmly embedded in their minds—all the more 
firmly because apparently they had found them for 
themselves. Such is the art of the pleader. 

After the interval, he resumed: “Before the ad¬ 
journment I formulated two questions for your con¬ 
sideration. I must not ask you whether you have 
made up your minds as to the answers to them or 
not. Now let us see. What happened, exactly, as far 
as there is evidence, on the day on which Mr. Gara¬ 
van was shot?” 

He used the testimony of Mrs. Nollis as a basis, 
and worked it up to show; that Isola was in a state of 
great nervous excitement when she arrived at the 
house. Then he broke off to go for Hanson. 

“Here, I must differ from my learned friend on a 
point of detail. But it is a very important detail, and 
it illustrates the difference between us as to the inter¬ 
pretation of the facts. The prisoner had been to 
Henley twice before. On the first occasion she was 
admitted, there was a dispute, and subsequently Mr. 
Garavan gave orders that she was not be admitted 
again. Accordingly, on the second occasion she was 
refused admittance. How came it, then, that she was 
admitted on this third occasion? You have been told 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


129 


why. A guest, a lady, had been expected who had 
not arrived; the servant who opened the door knew 
that, but did not know the lady’s name. Nor did 
he know the prisoner’s real name; he knew her by 
her stage name. He mistook her for the missing guest, 
and admitted her into the house. 

“How was it that he did not recognise her? My 
learned friend put the question to him, and the answer 
was: ‘She wore a veil.’ Later, my learned friend, 
in examining the butler, who saw the prisoner as she 
was passing through the hall, asked him the same 
question: how was it that he did not recognise her? 
But my learned friend put it differently. He divided 
it into two parts. First: ‘Did you recognise her?’ 
The witness said: ‘No.’ Second: ‘Because she was 
disguised?’ Answer: ‘Yes, she wore a different style 
of dress from any I had previously seen her wear, 
and her face was covered.’ ” 

Morry’s voice took on a deep, almost angry, tone. 
“I protest! I protest against this insinuation that the 
prisoner was disguised! Is it a disguise to put on 
a plain cloth dress made by an ordinary tailor, a 
black hat such as any lady might wear at any time, 
and a veil? Gentlemen, it may occur to you to ask 
yourselves: ‘Why did she put on a veil?’ Ask your¬ 
selves another question. Suppose the wife of any one 
of you had been suddenly bereft of her child. Sup¬ 
pose she had been suffering for over a fortnight an 
agony of anxiety. Suppose she had received news 
which lacerated her feelings afresh, racked her with 
new and terrible fears. She has to make a journey, 
a railway journey, in the endeavour to recover her 


130 


MORRY 


dear one. She has to go to a crowded station, book 
a ticket, sit in a compartment with other people. What 
would she do? She would dress herself as quietly as 
possible, and put on a veil to hide the ravages which 
anxiety was making in her face. That was what the 
prisoner did. Would not every woman do the 
same?” 

It was another illustration of the art of the 
pleader—the emphasising of important details. 
Morry justified himself as to the importance of this 
detail. 

“Why do I dwell on a point which seems trivial? 
Because, although in itself it is trivial, it is vital to the 
case of the prosecution that a certain complexion 
should be put upon it.” He hammered the next sen¬ 
tence. “They say the prisoner murdered the deceased, 
and to make that out they have to show that when she 
went to the house she intended to kill him. Does 
a murderer usually go to the house where the in¬ 
tended victim lives, knock at the front door, and give 
his or her name? No. But that is what the prisoner 
did, according to the witnesses for the prosecution. 
In themselves the facts do not lend any colour to the 
theory that the prisoner went to the house intending to 
kill Mr. Garavan. Therefore it is necessary for the 
prosecution to put a certain complexion on them. So, 
they insinuate that she disguised herself. Whereas, 
in fact, she did nothing of the kind. She simply 
dressed herself as any lady would dress herself under 
such trying circumstances. Is it not clear, clear 
beyond any possibility of doubt, that when she went 
to Henley she had no idea in her mind of killing? 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


131 


“Oh, but then why did she take a pistol with her? 

“If it had not been for Mr. Durnsen, I should have 
been in a difficulty there. To take a pistol on an 
errand of that sort, unless there is a reason for doing 
so innocently, would look bad. As it is, thanks to 
Mr. Durnsen, who gave his evidence in a manner 
which convinced everyone in this court that he was 
speaking the truth, I am in no difficulty at all. It is 
not necessary to explain to you why the prisoner put 
a pistol in her handbag. You know why. She went 
to Henley in fear of her life. And her fear was 
justified.” 

He described with a restraint that brought out its 
intrinsic detestableness, the scene that confronted Isola 
when she entered the dining-room. His voice seemed 
to melt with emotion as he said: 

“She had brought up her child well, had tried to 
ensure, as far as possible, that little Lynette should 
atone, in the eyes of those with whom she came in 
contact, by good manners and good behaviour, for her 
irregular parentage. You heard the evidence of the 
housekeeper, and of the other servants, as to Lynette’s 
conduct. What must have been the prisoner’s state of 
mind when she found her precious charge being de¬ 
graded to titillate the jaded senses of a party of 
decadents?” 

He paused. 

“Indignation! An indignation so profound that she 
would have been morally justified, in the opinion of 
many people, in pulling the pistol out of her handbag 
and shooting the defiler there and then. That is what 
she would have done if she had come there with any 


132 


MORRY 


intention to kill. But did she? No. What did she 
do? She asked for her child. All she wanted, all 
she had come for, was to recover her child.” 

He went step by step through the circumstances 
until he came to the fatal moment in the library, using 
the present tense in order to intensify the reality of the 
picture. 

“The man pulls open the drawer, and in it the 
prisoner sees a pistol. What had he said to her in 
the dining-room, when he tried to remove the child 
from her arms, and she resisted? ‘Don’t start a 
rough house with me.’ You had the explanation of 
the meaning of the phrase from Mr. Durnsen. What 
did the deceased intend the prisoner to understand by 
it? Obviously, that violence would be met by more 
effective violence. There could be no other meaning. 
The deceased was prepared, if it came to a physical 
struggle, to be quicker than she. He was prepared, if 
it came to shooting, to shoot first” 

The intense conviction with which the words were 
spoken made a visible impression on the spectators; 
I could not see the jury, because I was almost under¬ 
neath them. 

“The prisoner knew that. She must have known 
it. She knew of what he was capable. He had threat¬ 
ened to shoot her before, relatively speaking in cold 
blood, and when he was sober. On this occasion he 
was violently excited, and had been drinking. But 
if he was violently excited, so was she, and people in 
a state of violent excitement act quickly. She acted 
quickly. She did what any sensible person would 
have done. She saw that he was trying to get at 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


133 


his pistol, and prevented him from shooting her by 
shooting him. She could do nothing else.” 

He paused, and then asked, quietly—he had empha¬ 
sised the previous passage: 

“Is that murder? If it is, I know nothing of the 
law. His lordship will tell you that if the prisoner 
fired because she was in imminent peril of her life, 
she is not guilty of murder, or indeed of any crime 
except a nominal one. I will go further. I will say 
this. It would not be murder even if the prisoner 
exaggerated the imminence of her peril. I will tell 
you why.” 

He proceeded to unfold his legal argument. He 
led the jury into the middle of a maze, where they 
found themselves confronted by a verdict of Not 
Guilty. Then came the peroration. It contained a 
definite repudiation of the plea of “the unwritten 
law” as “a confused conception which finds no place 
in my mind and must find none in yours.” “I do not 
ask you to be merciful: I only ask you to be just.” 
“The prisoner at the bar is entitled to leave the court 
unstained by even a nominal condemnation of her 
desperate act.” “I have done what in me lies: in 
your hands be it.” 

There was a burst of applause, sharply repressed 
by the ushers, and I could hear the jury moving above 
my head as men move after being rigid under a strain. 
I felt sure that Isola would escape. 

Then, cogent and olympian, Sir Rodney Hansen 
poured cold water on the effect of Morry’s art. Isola 
had shot Garavan because he refused to give up 
Lynette. AJ1 the facts pointed to that simple explana- 


134 


MORRY 


tion as to motive, whereas there was not an atom of 
evidence for Morry’s theory that she fired in self- 
defence. It was much more probable that Garavan 
had tried to get at his pistol in order to protect him¬ 
self from her than that she had had to use hers in 
order to protect herself from him. He might have 
threatened her eight years before, but there was no 
reason to suppose that he had done so since. Why 
should he? What possible cause could he have had 
for trying to use violence? The jury must not be led 
away by the ingenuity of counsel for the defence. 
They must use their common sense. Sir Rodney made 
no attempt to deal with Morry’s maze, merely refer¬ 
ring to it as “an ingenious legal argument as to the 
validity of which his lordship’s directions will enable 
you to judge.” 

I was not so sure after this that Isola would escape. 
Sir Rodney had evidently shaken the general dis¬ 
position to accept Morry’s version of the scene in the 
library. And, as the summing-up went on, my hopes 
sank lower. The judge was, on the whole, against 
Morry, although scrupulous in mentioning the points 
in Isola’s favour. He laid it down that only the 
being in imminent peril justifies homicide, and empha¬ 
sised the fact that although Garavan had opened the 
drawer, he had not taken out the pistol. There was 
no evidence that Isola’s life had ever been in danger, 
or even that she had supposed so, although that might 
possibly be inferred from the circumstances as a 
whole. The prosecution might have laid too much stress 
on certain facts which went to show that there was pre¬ 
meditation : with regard to the prisoner’s conduct after 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


135 


Garavan’s death, although it appeared that she had 
been cool and collected, she had not attempted to 
make it appear that she had been obliged to protect 
herself; she had left the pistol where it was, had 
not taken it out of the drawer and put it in the dead 
man’s hand. The jury must come to a conclusion on 
the facts as they had been presented by the witnesses. 

Then he began on Morry’s maze. He was against 
Morry as to that too. But he meandered, began pres¬ 
ently to flounder. My hopes rose a peg. He re¬ 
covered firm ground, and my hopes sank. A few 
minutes later it became patent that he had not really 
grasped the point, or if he had, he could not put it 
clearly into words. The spectators grew restless, the 
law clerks hunched their shoulders and whispered 
sneeringly to one another. Macallan repeated him¬ 
self, not for the first time. 

There were restless movements in the jury-box over 
my head. 

Morry sat like a statue. He never looked at me, 
never even blinked. 

I was too far off to see the pencil, but I felt sure 
the beat was changing. “You’ve got him!” I cried 
exultingly to myself: “By God, you’ve got him cold!” 

All the same, my heart began to throb painfully as 
soon as the jury had retired. Taken all round, it was 
a hanging summing-up. I felt sure the jury did not 
understand the last part of it, but suppose they said: 
“The law be blowed. She threatened the man when 
he wouldn’t give up the child, and then she killed 
him.” Sir Rodney had put that view of the matter 
very plainly in his polished language. 


136 


MORRY 


They were out for forty minutes, and during the 
wait the excitement in court rose like a thermometer 
in the sun. The place was packed with people sitting 
jammed tightly against one another on the seats, stand¬ 
ing on the steps and in the alleyways packed front to 
back and side to side. No one dared to go out be¬ 
cause it would have been impossible to get in again. 
The telegraph boys ducked and squeezed their way 
somehow from the door to the Press table and back 
again, and when this happened there were curious 
swaying movements among those who were standing 
as though a breeze were moving their heads. A breeze 
was what was wanted. The atmosphere was stifling, 
in spite of the smell of crushed herbs which is charac¬ 
teristic of the Bailey. Sweat came out on almost all 
the faces, and moment by moment I expected some 
woman to faint or to go into hysterics. 

At last the jury came filing back into court. The 
judge entered and resumed his seat. Isola reappeared 
in the dock. 

The foreman got up. 

“Do you find the prisoner Guilty or Not Guilty?” 

“Not Guilty, my lord.” 

There was cheering then that could not be re¬ 
pressed; I am not ashamed to say that I joined in it, 
and was reproved by an usher in consequence. 
Vainly did he and his fellows command silence. 
Vainly did the judge himself reprove us with uplifted 
hand: not a word of what he said was audible a few 
feet away. Isola’s celebrity and her beauty, coupled 
with the story, had won the sympathies of most of 
those in court before Morry worked them up to an 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


137 


eager partisanship. Now they let themselves go. 

At last something like silence was restored, the 
judge discharged the prisoner, and the court rose. 
Then the hubbub began again. People pressed round 
the dock, congratulating Isola. She had been stand¬ 
ing, rigid as a stone, since she had been brought back 
to hear the verdict, and now the wardress spoke to 
her smilingly, telling her, I imagine, that she was free 
to walk away then and there if she liked, but as she 
would probably be mobbed by sympathisers it might 
be better to go down below again and leave by the 
side entrance. She said something in return, evi¬ 
dently referring to Morry, and sat down with her eyes 
fixed on him. 

He was receiving congratulations. I was waiting 
to offer mine, and heard Sir Rodney Hanson, who 
leaned up from the row of seats below, say warmly: 
“Magnificent, Abramson. You really must make up 
your mind to come a step down in the world”— mean¬ 
ing that Morry ought to take Silk at last, when he 
would sit in the lower row with the K.C.’s. Several 
spectators pressed up in spite of the ushers (who 
were trying to clear the court) and wanted to shake 
Morry by the hand. He acknowledged these tributes 
by nodding his head mechanically. He did not look 
in the direction of the dock. He gathered up his 
papers and gave them to Duncan, spoke a word or 
two to Finegold, who had been with him in the case, 
and moved to go. His eyes met mine. My congratu¬ 
lations died on my lips. 

“Ah, Dick. Coming to chambers?” 

“She wants to thank you,” I whispered. 


138 


MORRY 


He did not seem to hear. “Come back with me.” 
It was an appeal. 

As we moved towards the door, I glanced in the 
direction of the dock. Isola was gazing at us. She 
half rose, and made a gesture with her hand. I 
looked away. 

As soon as we emerged into the corridor, cheering 
broke out. “Good lad, Abrams!” “One for the Jew 
boy!” “God bless you, sir!” “He was a proper bad 
’un, and only got his rights!” “Well done, Mr. 
Abraham!” The police pushed the people aside and 
made a way for us. Morry leant heavily on my arm. 

A friendly policeman at the entrance called up a 
taxi. I almost had to lift Morry into it. As we drove 
away I told the man to stop at the first public-house. 
I went in, got a glass of brandy, and brought it out 
to Morry. He tried to take the glass, but his hand 
shook so much that I had to put it to his lips. 

He never mentioned Isola’s name in my hearing, 
after the luncheon interval that day, until—read on. 

I came to the conclusion that she must have played 
him false as woman to man, knowing his code of 
morals to be a strict one, that with him it would be 
marriage or nothing. Perhaps I was wrong in 
attributing the slowness of his courtship to the desire 
to spare his mother; greatly attracted as he un¬ 
doubtedly was by Isola’s twilight beauty, he may have 
found it difficult to be wholly sure about her, and 
she, sensing this, have sought to draw him on by 
pretending to be, in tastes and disposition and ideas, 
quite a different person from what she really was. 
The realisation of her peril after the inquest—I don’t 


GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 


139 


think she realised it before—drove her to a full 
confession as to the manner of life she had led; from 
which Morry saw that she had deceived him in a 
manner which made any close personal relation 
between them impossible. He saved her from the 
danger in which she stood, but except as to that he 
would have no more to do with her. 

A wise man only believes in one woman in his 
life. Happy is he whom She does not fail. 


CHAPTER VII 


K.C., M.P. 

As the result of securing an acquittal in the Henley 
Shooting Case, Morry took Silk with such eclat that 
his earnings as a K.C. were double what they had 
ever been before. This justified the change in his 
mode of living which he made not long after. 

Several other things happened about that time. A 
general election took place, and Morry entered the 
House of Commons as member for Limesea. I went 
to one of his election meetings. After his speech, 
which was admirably phrased, but seemed to me to 
lack punch, questions were handed up. One was: 

“Will Mr. Abramson say why it is on account of 
men like himself that women think they can shoot 
anybody they like?” 

Morry made the obvious retort—wisely, because 
audiences at political meetings prefer the obvious. I 
wondered what it cost him. 

He was not altogether popular at first in the House; 
the impression he made as a legislator was all right, 
but on the social side there was something to be made 
up for subsequently. His gravity was disconcerting; 
what can you make of a fellow who never laughs and 
rarely smiles over even the funniest of stories? Also, 
for some time he retained the simple personal habits 
acquired in the years of struggle and kept to since; 
he did not rise all at once to cigars and champagne. 


K.C., M.P. 


141 


So, when someone alluded to him as a solemn Square- 
toes and the inevitable House of Commons wit said 
it ought to have been Solly Squaretoes, the nickname 
stuck, although it was not long before honourable 
members began to discover that there was a lot in 
Abramson really. Eventually, he became one of the 
best-liked and most respected men in the House. 

There were also events in the family. He heard 
of a doctor at Vienna who was treating with success 
the particular form of adiposity from which Mrs. 
Abramson suffered, and arranged for her to go over. 
The result was startling. A few months later Mrs. 
Abramson returned no more than a comfortable size 
for a woman of her years, and whereas before it had 
been obvious that her disease might bring the end 
at any time, there was now no reason to suppose that 
she would not enjoy many years of life. She was 
prepared to enjoy them, but, in her newly-restored 
activity, not in London; she wanted to go back to the 
country. Meantime, Jessie had lost her husband, and 
was left poorly off. Morry had been helping her a 
good deal, especially in regard to the education of 
her boy and girl. David went to Westminster School 
and Mariel to St. Paul’s; so it was clear that the 
sensible thing would be for Sara to go into the country 
with Mr. and Mrs. Abramson, and for Jess to keep 
house for Morry in town. He bought a house at 
Mirfield for his father and mother, and cajoled Sara 
into compliance. For himself and Jess he leased 
from the Crown one of the fine old mansions in 
Regent’s Park, and had it done up and furnished in 
the most elaborate style. He began to entertain. 


142 


MORRY 


Jess was quite a good hostess, and Morry soon became 
a figure in the social-political world. 

The change was all to the good, and he might have 
benefited by it much more than he did. Sara was one 
of those women who aridify a home, and her outlook 
on life was limited; Jess was not only amiable but 
intelligent, David and Mariel were pleasant young 
people. Morry might have been humanised if he had 
been able to give more time to the home life and to 
take a real interest in it. As it was, he leant on 
Jessie’s sociability and confined himself to being 
proud of David and Mariel, especially of their 
achievements. He joined us sometimes of a Sunday 
evening in the music-room, when we sang part-songs 
and told stories and sometimes romped; but it fre¬ 
quently happened that the others hardly saw him 
for weeks at a time, except now and then at meals, 
when he talked cases and politics, trying hard in the 
pauses to recall his last glimpse of their personal 
interests. 

As for me, I saw more of him in the three of four 
years after he took Silk than I had ever done. David 
and Mariel adopted me as an uncle, and I was a great 
deal at Regent’s Park. My dramatic blossoms 
withered in the chill wind of public indifference, and 
I became a regular attendant again at chambers. 
Those were the days of the cross-examinations which 
brought Morry to rank with the greatest exponents 
of that branch of forensic art. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A Woman Trap 

The consultation had only been arranged that morn¬ 
ing—a special fee being paid for it to be held the same 
day. From the legal point of view there proved to 
be no reason why I should have bolted my dinner 
and Morry be neglecting the interests of Limesea; 
but, as it was clear that the bewildered gentleman 
responsible would have been unable to rest if he had 
not unburdened himself, we forgave him. 

He explained that he had married, three years ago, 
a lady somewhat older than himself, whom he greatly 
admired. They had both done their best to make the 
marriage a success, but it was not a success, and after 
two years they had separated amicably. His wife 
possessed a fortune of her own. A few months later 
she had asked him to allow her to divorce him: she 
wished to be free, but was unwilling to incur the 
obloquy of appearing to be the guilty party. He 
had consented, and his solicitors had told him what 
to do in order to provide her with the necessary for¬ 
mal evidence. 

Matters had gone on in the usual way, as he was 
told, until yesterday, when, without any pre-com¬ 
munication with him, his wife had applied for—what 
was it?—oh, yes—for leave to amend her petition 
by substituting the name of a friend of hers, who 
had stayed with them, for the conventional lady un¬ 
known. It would be said, evidently it must be said, 


144 


MORRY 


that he had misconducted himself in his own home. 
He resented the imputation. He had done nothing 
of the kind. He would not dream of behaving in 
that way under any circumstances. As a matter of 
fact- 

The solicitor remonstrated. 

Oh, well, it didn’t matter now—as a matter of fact 
he had never misconducted himself at all. The 
arranged-for misconduct was merely nominal. He 
had agreed to submit to a stigma of that sort for his 
wife’s sake, because, after all, among men of the 
world—quite So. But he would not submit to the 
stigma which it was now sought to fix upon him. 
The case must be fought from the start. 

He struck the table and drew a deep breath. 

We knew the reason for the wife’s change of plan. 
A long list of divorce suits had been left over at the 
end of the previous term, and for the new term a 
retired judge had been summoned from his golf 
and rose-growing to help his over-worked colleagues. 
Sir Dalziel Peabody had been a Rhadamanthine old 
gentleman before he left the bench; bunkers and 
green-fly had not softened the sternness of his temper; 
he cared nothing about the practice in the Divorce 
Court, and when the first arranged case came before 
him, stamped on the time-honoured imposture and 
refused a decree. Consequently the wife’s solicitors 
had taken alarm, had told her that her petition might 
fail. 

Morry said to the solicitor: “Have you given notice 
of your intention to oppose, Mr. Badgworth?” 

The solicitor said he had not. 



A WOMAN TRAP 


145 


“Then do so. That is really all that can be done 
at present, Mr. Mallynge. The case will be taken 
out of the unopposed and put into the opposed list, 
and will have to take its turn. It is very improbable 
that it will be reached this term. However, as you are 
here, we may as well make use of the opportunity. 
Tell me a little more. Who is this lady whose name 
is to be put in?” 

“Miss Hautwreck—Lorice Hautwreck. She lived 
with my wife before I knew her.” 

“Before you knew your wife?” 

“Yes.” 

“How long have you known Miss Hautwreck?” 

“I saw her for the first time as my wife’s brides¬ 
maid.” 

“On your wedding-day? Well, we may assume 
that nothing will be said about that occasion. When 
was the next time you saw her?” 

“When she came to stay with us the first time.” 

“How long was that after you were married?” 

“About four months, I think.” 

“How long did she stay?” 

“Three weeks, to the best of my recollection. She 
came on the-” 

“Never mind the exact date now. Mr. Badgworth 
will see to all that. I just want you to give me a 
general idea. Miss Hautwreck came a second time?” 

“Oh, yes—a second and a third time. I am not 
sure whether it was not four times altogether.” 

“You will, no doubt, be able to fix your recollec¬ 
tions. Now tell me. Did you never meet her any¬ 
where but at your own house?” 



146 


MORRY 


“She dined with us when we were in town—several 
times.” 

“Did she never stay with you in town?” 

“No. She lives in London.” 

“Where did you dine on those occasions?” 

“At a restaurant.” 

“Your wife being present?” 

“Certainly.” 

“You were never alone with Miss Hautwreck, then, 
in town?” 

“We met one afternoon in the street, by chance, 
and she suggested that we might have tea together. 
So I took her to Princes’.” 

“I do not think much could be made of that. Now 
as to the country visits. You were, naturally, left 
alone with her sometimes then. How did that usually 
happen?” 

Mallynge said that he could not recollect ever hav¬ 
ing been alone with Miss Hautwreck in the house, 
except for a few minutes in a casual way, because 
she usually spent her time with his wife. He promised 
to go over this question in his mind. 

“Then, outside the house. Did you take Miss 
Hautwreck out without your wife?” 

“Sometimes. She rides, and my wife does not. 
At least, she rides now. She did not when first I 
knew her.” 

“Did you teach her to ride?” 

I thought Mr. Crosthwaite Mallynge reddened a 
trifle under his tan. 

“Partly. She had lessons between her visits.” 

“Whose idea was it that you teach her to ride?” 


A WOMAN TRAP 


147 


“Hers, I think. I am not quite sure now. I may- 
have suggested it.” 

“Did you do anything else together which Mrs. 
Mallynge did not share?” 

“We sometimes played golf.” 

“Did your wife always know of it when you went 
riding with Miss Hautwreck, or played golf with 
her?” 

“Certainly. She usually made the arrangement for 
us.” 

“Did anything happen on these occasions which, 
in the light of the present position, I should know— 
anything in the way of flirtation?” 

“Nothing whatever. Miss Hautwreck talked in a 
flowery style sometimes, but I have heard her do that 
to other people.” 

“Flowery?” 

“Well—it might be called sentimental.” 

Morry eyed him gravely. “How would you de¬ 
scribe your relations with her?” 

“As friendly. She was my wife’s greatest friend, 
before we were married at any rate.” 

“Not after?” 

“Yes, in the sense that I don’t think my wife had 
any closer friend. But it did occur to me, the last 
time Miss Hautwreck came, that my wife seemed to 
have tired of her.” 

“Do you think your wife was jealous of Miss Haut¬ 
wreck, on your account?” 

“I am absolutely certain such an idea never entered 
her head. There could have been no possible reason 
for it.” 


148 


MORRY 


“Sometimes reason plays no part in such things, 
Mr. Mallynge. By what name did you call Miss 
Hautwreck?” 

“Lorice.” 

“Never by any pet name, or nickname?” 

“Never.” 

“What did she call you?” 

Our client was distinctly pinker as he replied: 
“Usually by my first name—Godfrey. But she some¬ 
times called me her Lilybird. I don’t know what it 
means. I don’t think she meant anything by it. It 
was just—er—a sort of silly joke.” 

“You must forgive me for asking this question, 
but it is very important. Were there ever passages 
between you which might possibly have been mis¬ 
taken by anyone for passages of affection?” 

Rose-pink deepened to crimson. “Well—she 
used to play the fool sometimes. There was no harm 
in it.” 

“I am afraid I must ask what you mean by that. 
A jury will expect to know.” 

“Er—she took hold of me—caught my arm, or 
put her hand on my shoulder—only in play. It 
wasn’t a regular thing. It happened once or twice, 
that’s all.” 

“What did you do?” 

“Nothing. I—er—used to tell her she would make 
my wife jealous, or throw off some remark to a similar 
effect. Then she let me go.” 

“Your wife being present?” 

With cheeks a deep beet-root colour: “Well, once 
or twice she did it when my wife wasn’t there.” 


A WOMAN TRAP 


149 


“I thought you said it only happened once or 
twice altogether.” 

“I was speaking figuratively. Er, dash it, I hate 
this.” 

“/ don’t like it,” responded Morry genially, “but 
you see, Mr. Mallynge, if I am to appear for you, 
I must know exactly how matters stood between you 
and this lady. You would not intentionally deceive 
me, of course, but to speak figuratively about matters 
of fact may lead me into a blunder which will be 
fatal.” 

“Quite, quite. I see that. There wasn’t anything 
in it. So long as you understand that, I don’t mind. 
There was nothing in it—on either side.” 

Morry became pensive. His reflections lasted for 
several minutes. 

“Have you tried to communicate with Miss Haut- 
wreck since you heard of this?” 

“Yes. I went to see her yesterday. She sent out 
a message to say that she could have nothing more 
to do with me.” 

“From which you infer, I imagine, that your wife 
and she are acting in concert?” 

“I fear there can be no doubt of it.” 

Another pause. 

“How old is Miss Hautwreck?” 

“She must be twenty-five,” replied Mallynge after 
some hesitation. “She may be more than that— 
perhaps thirty.” 

“What is her disposition?” 

Again the client was at a loss, and Morry sug¬ 
gested: “Bright?” 


150 


MORRY 


“N-no, not exactly. She is, er—talkative.” 

“What does she talk about?” 

“I should say men, mostly.” 

“Ah. Particular men?” 

“Sometimes, but more often men in general. She 
criticises our sex unfavourably. I gather that she 
has had an unfortunate experience.” 

“Of what nature?” 

“I could not say.” 

“This is very important, Mr. Mallynge. Can you 
give me no idea? Has she been jilted for instance?” 

“I never heard that she was ever engaged.” 

“Well, then, in what way has she suffered? What 
gave you such an impression?” 

“The way she talks. I may be mistaken. She is 
so vague.” 

“Give me an example.” 

“Well, one of her favourite sentences is: ‘Don’t 
you think men are dreadful?’ She says it to most 
people she meets, and usually follows it up by re¬ 
marking that men pay attention to girls and then walk 
off, or something to that effect.” 

“If anyone had asked you a week ago as to her 
moral character, what would you have said?” 

“Oh, that was good. Undoubtedly, quite good.” 

“And now?” 

The worthy gentleman was much embarrassed. 
“Well,” he ventured apologetically, “I really don’t 
see how she could have lent herself to this abominable 
conspiracy unless she, er-” 

“Unless she has had an adventure with a man?” 

Mallynge nodded. 



A WOMAN TRAP 


151 


“How do you account for your wife’s share in it? 
Be perfectly frank, Mr. Mallynge, please.” 

Our client looked very thoughtful as he said: “My 
wife has always been accustomed to have her own 
way and do just as she likes. She was allowed to 
spend considerable sums of money as a girl, and 
ever since she came of age she has disposed of a 
large income. She is also a woman of great strength 
of character. I do not like to say it—I dislike even 
to hint at anything to her detriment—but I am much 
afraid that she may have persuaded Miss Hautwreck 
into this by means of which I neither know anything 
nor wish to know anything.” 

“What was the cause of the separation? You 
merely said that your marriage was not a success 
although both of you tried to make it so. What was 
wrong, Mr. Mallynge?” 

It is difficult to convey an idea of the extent to 
which Morry made it easy for clients to answer such 
questions. There was a brotherliness about him when 
he asked them which was irresistible. Mallynge re¬ 
sponded to it, and gave us an explanation, the manner 
and the matter of which alike deserved respect. The 
gist of it was that he was nearing the forties and his 
wife just entered upon them at the time of the mar¬ 
riage. He had always lived in the country out of 
choice (he was that rare type, a modern country 
gentleman), and she in towns and largely abroad. 
There was no compatibility, and there was a deeper 
incompatibility which only revealed itself after mar¬ 
riage; as to that he said no more than he was obliged, 
like the gentleman he was. 


152 


MORRY 


As the door closed behind him and his solicitor I 
began to hum: ‘Where, 0 where is that good boy 
Joseph?” 

“What’s that?” said Morry, putting on his hat. 

“It looks as if the lady-friend had given hubby the 
glad eye and the invitation had escaped his notice.” 

“I wish she were a different sort of woman.” 

“What more convenient sort could she be for you, 
as far as we can judge of her?” 

“My dear fellow, if she has had adventures with 
men-” 

. “She hasn’t,” quoth I. 

“But Mallynge said-” 

“He said she talked about men. It’s the girls 
who’ve not been there who do that. Those who have, 
keep their mouths shut.” 

“What a fellow you are for firing into the blue!” 

Mrs. Mallynge was one of those hook-nosed, high¬ 
voiced English women who seem to think themselves 
very important—why, it is not always easy to 
imagine; but in her case there could be no doubt 
about: she was the Only Child of a Distiller. Ex¬ 
amined by Hendricks, K.C., she said that during her 
married life it had occurred to her sometimes that 
her husband and Miss Hautwreck seemed to get on 
very well together, but she had never suspected them 
of a liaison. Later, gossip had reached her, and 
she had gone to Miss Hautwreck and taxed her with 
it. Miss Hautwreck had thereupon confessed. 

During the luncheon interval Morry discussed the 
position. 

“Well? Do you think she is lying?” 




A WOMAN TRAP 


153 


“I believe Mallynge absolutely, so she must be.” 

“I see no opening at present, and unless she gives 
me one, it will be dangerous to try and break her 
down.” 

I agreed. The attempt to break a witness down 
necessarily shows counsel in an unpleasing light, and 
to fail may be disastrous, especially with a woman 
who is a principal party in the case. Sympathy 
counts for a good deal, and juries are apt to let their 
sympathies run away with them when a woman who 
says she has been wronged emerges triumphant from 
a searching cross-examination. 

Morry kept Mrs. Mallynge in the box for some 
time, however, probing here and there in the en¬ 
deavour to elicit something which would be useful 
later. She replied to his questions in a tone of 
icy contempt, and he got nothing out of her. 

I felt quite taken aback when Miss Hautwreck was 
called. I had pictured her as tall, stately, and prob¬ 
ably haggard-looking. Instead, there skipped into 
the box a buxom little creature with bobbed hair, 
red cheeks, and staring black eyes. She answered 
the formal questions as to her name, age, etc., in 
a sort of rapid fire that was disconcertingly confident. 
She was twenty-seven; to look at her, she might have 
been anything between fifteen and forty. 

Hendricks said: “You were acquainted with Mrs. 
Mallynge before her marriage?” 

“Yes.” 

“And afterwards she invited you to stay at Tiver- 
dale House?” 

“Yes.” 


154 


MORRY 


He asked about the date and duration of the first 
visit, and then began on the question of her relations 
with Mallynge. She described with fluency and an 
aggrieved gusto passages of flirtation— hand-squeez¬ 
ing and foot-pressing and such-like trivialities— 
elaborating her answers occasionally and throwing 
her head back. 

I became aware that Morry was whispering to me: 
“This is metal more malleable, I think.” 

I assented mechanically. Actually, I was not at 
all sure about her. That was a most odd trick she 
had of throwing back her head; it remained, for a 
perceptible interval of time, in the thrown-back 
position, and then returned gradually to the normal 
one. All unconscious nervous tricks mean something. 
This one didn’t look at all like incipient paralysis 
to me. 

Hendricks had brought her to the second visit. It 
was the same sort of story, except that things were 
developing. I watched her, absorbed. It had occurred 
to me that perhaps she threw her head back when¬ 
ever she was telling an extra big lie. 

“Now as to the ninth of May. Do you recollect 
the evening of that day?” 

“I never can forget it.” 

“Just tell the jury what happened.” 

In a confidential style, she related that Mr. Mal¬ 
lynge came into her bedroom- 

Then that wasn’t the explanation: she never moved 
her head at all over the terrible ninth of May. But 
I began to think that my long shot might have found 
the green. She was chattering away to the jury about 



A WOMAN TRAP 


155 


one side of the picture, completely unconscious that 
there was another. She said nothing as to her own 
behaviour; now, if she had really passed through 
the experience that she described with such glibness, 
she would have known that her own conduct was 
as much in question as that of the man. 

When court rose Morry and I turned into Fountain 
Court on our way back to chambers, and walked round 
the basin—a habit of ours on fine afternoons. As the 
pencil had changed in the course of the day from “I- 
Don’t-Know” to “What-Shall-I-Do?” and Morry said 
nothing now, I ventured to put forward my opinion. 

“That woman is posing, Morry. She sees herself 
as the heroine of a romantic intrigue. I don’t believe 
she knows what she’s talking about.” 

“You may be right. But what is the line of 
attack?” 

That was beyond me. I asked whether he had 
noticed the peculiar manner in which she threw back 
her head. He said he had, but did not think it of 
any significance. I differed and told him my first 
theory about it. He was interested. 

“If you go through the transcript, can you say with 
certainty when she did it?” 

(Everything said in a court of law is taken down 
by an official shorthand writer, and as quickly as 
possible after the court rises it is transcribed on a 
typewriter, so that counsel have it at latest by the 
next morning.) 

I thought I could. He hurried to chambers and 
sent Duncan to get a copy of the transcript of Miss 
Hautwreck’s evidence. It was sent to Regent’s Park, 


156 


MORRY 


and Morry came back from the House early. We 
went over it together. I was sure of three places. 

Morry’s face went blank, and there was one of 
those uncomfortable silences to which I never became 
habituated. It was as though he were tearing at 
something that was invisible behind an impalpable 
screen. 

“I have it,” he said at last. “She does that when 
she is inventing a fresh lie.” 

He went over her story point by point, and showed 
me that all, or almost all, the other details might 
quite well have been thought of beforehand; but 
those over which she had tossed her head arose either 
out of the form in which Hendricks had put a ques¬ 
tion or an elaboration of her own in reply to one. 

I could not see the value of this from the point 
of view of tactics, but Morry seemed satisfied, and 
next morning, while the judge was taking appli¬ 
cations and we had to wait, the pencil beat “I-Won- 
der,” which meant that he was hopeful. 

He began his cross-examination by questioning Miss 
Hautwreck closely about her relations with Mrs. Mal- 
lynge previous to the latter’s marriage. The witness 
did not see his object in this, and answered in the 
rapid-fire style she had adopted at the commence¬ 
ment of her examination-in-chief. She had gone too 
far in the way of insisting that they had been the 
best of friends to draw back when he brought her 
to the first downward step. 

“You were not acquainted with the respondent at 
this time, I think?” 

“No.” 


A WOMAN TRAP 


157 


“And you were a bridesmaid at the wedding, were 
you not? ... So that your feeling for the petitioner 
was not altered by the fact of her marriage?” 

“No.” 

“Then when she invited you to stay at Tiverdale 
House, and you went, she was still your dearest 
friend?” 

“Yes.” 

“When if first occurred to you that the respondent 
was unduly warm in his admiration of you, what 
effect did that have on your feeling for your friend?” 

Her glibness was checked. She hesitated, made 
an evasive answer. Morry repeated the question. 
Eventually, she said that it made no difference. 

“What was your attitude to his first advances?” 

The witness hesitated again. As I said, in reply to 
Hendricks’ tactfully worded questions, it had neither 
been necessary for her to represent herself as a 
willing party to the intrigue nor an unwilling one. 
Now she became conscious that to represent herself 
as merely acquiescent would be to hold herself up 
to contempt, while to have met the husband’s advances 
half-way would have been treacherous and base. She 
began to toss her head. I saw the use that Morry had 
found for my suggestion now. Whenever she did 
that, he encouraged her to talk; he was acting on the 
belief that she was then lying impromptu, and would 
almost certainly entangle herself if allowed to go on. 

She was framing her answers so that they tended 
more and more to become excuses. Morry played up 
to this; gradually, he edged her into representing her¬ 
self as a victim. 


158 


MORRY 


“You still went riding with him alone?” 

“He promised me there should be no more of it.” 

“Was that before he kissed you in the drawing¬ 
room one evening when you were waiting for dinner?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Then he did not keep his word?” 

“No.” 

“And you continued to allow him opportunities to 
break it?” 

“I could not avoid them without doing something 
which would have aroused Irma’s suspicions. But I 
was angry with him whenever he did break his word.” 

“Oh! What did you do when he kissed you?” 

“I tried to prevent him.” 

“How?” 

The witness made a long and detailed explanation. 
“I struck him—well, I didn’t exactly strike him, but 
I put my hand out and pushed him sharply away. 
Then he got hold of me and held me so tight I couldn’t 
move,” etc. 

“And after that what happened?” 

“Irma came in.” 

“Well?” 

“Then we went in to dinner.” 

“Did the respondent behave in his usual manner 
to his wife at dinner?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“As far as you remember, he did?” 

“Yes.” 

“And did you behave in your ordinary manner to 
her?” 

“Of course I did.” 


A WOMAN TRAP 


159 


“Miss Hautwreck. Did it never occur to you that 
to all appearances you were acting as treacherously 
as you say he was?” 

“Well, how could I help it?” 

“By taking measures to prevent him from con¬ 
tinuing to act in that way. Was that not obvious to 
you at the time?” 

“I don’t see what measures I could have taken.” 

“But surely-” 

“You don’t know what men can be like,” inter¬ 
rupted the witness. “They can make the most awful 
nuisances of themselves.” 

“You did not listen to what I was going to ask 
you. Surely you considered at the time what meas¬ 
ures you could take?” 

She had never thought of that. “Well, of course 
I did, in a way, but what can a girl do?” 

“I am asking you that question, as to yourself. 
What occurred to you?” 

“I might have complained to Irma, but it would 
have destroyed her confidence in Godfrey. I sup¬ 
pose you think nothing of that.” 

“It is not the question what I think, Miss Haut¬ 
wreck.” 

The jucSge reproved the witness. “You must not 
be impertinent.” 

She bit her lip. 

Morry lured her into another step. “The question 
is, what possible ways did you think of to end this 
persecution?” 

Miss Hautwreck had not gone so far as to say that 
she had been persecuted, but she caught at the idea 



160 


MORRY 


when it was thus presented to her, and had made her¬ 
self into injured innocence personified by half-past 
one. The last questions before the adjournment were: 

“Now as to the ninth of May. You say the re¬ 
spondent came into your bedroom on that evening. 
You were expecting him, I suppose?” 

“No, I wasn’t. I hadn’t the slightest idea of such 
a thing.” 

“But, surely, it was to be expected?” 

No answer. 

“Was not something of the kind to be expected, 
after all that had gone before?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Oh, come, Miss Hautwreck! As a woman of the 
world you must have known that it was likely to 
happen?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Was it your first experience of the sort?”—with 
just a suggestion of a sneer that stung her into pro¬ 
testing: 

“Of course it was.” 

She was in the trap, but was not allowed to know it 
until after we resumed. It is sometimes very im¬ 
portant not to give an inkling of what is coming 
later, when there is to be an interval during which 
the witness might reflect or possibly be prompted. On 
the other hand, if you want to get something from a 
witness which you fear may be withdrawn or quali¬ 
fied afterwards, the best time to get it is just before 
an adjournment, because then it remains in the jury¬ 
men’s minds during the interval, and they may forget 
the subsequent denial. 


A WOMAN TRAP 


161 


The trap was sprung on Miss Hautwreck immedi¬ 
ately after luncheon. 

“I want you to tell the jury exactly what happened 
after the respondent entered your room.” 

She began to repeat what she had said in her 
examination-in-chief. 

Morry stopped her. “I asked you to describe 
exactly what took place.” 

It took some time to make her understand. She 
had supposed that the reports in the newspapers of 
such cases went to the extreme limit of what could be 
said in public. Enlightened, she protested. The 
judge said: 

“What is your object in asking for these details, 
Mr. Abramson?” 

“I am instructed that the whole of this witness’ 
evidence, in so far as it attributes to my client any 
incorrectitude of behaviour, is untrue. My client 
is waiting to go into the box and deny it detail by 
detail as far as the preliminaries are concerned. 
But if this scene never took place at all—and I am 
assured that it did not—he can say no more than 
that, which, your lordship will allow, would leave me 
in a difficulty. I have to show that it is a pure 
invention, and the only way in which I can do so is 
to test the witness by asking for the details—even the 
most minute details. It will be for the jury to 
decide from what she says whether it is probable that 
anything of the kind happened.” 

The judge said: “Very well. You are entitled to 
take that course. Such details are best left in the 
background unless there is a definite reason for bring- 


162 


MORRY 


ing them out, but when that is the case, they must be 
given.”—To the witness: “Tell the jury, in the 
simplest way you can.” 

But this had formed no part of her story as she 
had prefigured herself telling it in the box, and she 
could not describe what would have taken place had 
the imaginary occasion been a real one, because she 
did not know. She threw her head back- 

Some of her reading had evidently been none too 
healthy. 

Morry pressed her. She grew nervous, her account 
confused. She simply could not tell him what he 
wanted to know, and he began to thunder at her. 
It was as if he were pressing her physically into a 
corner, driving her back, inch by inch, against a 
wall. 

There were interludes. She became hoarse, asked 
for a glass of water. When it was brought, she drank, 
and the rim of the glass rattled against her teeth. She 
went on again. Her account was so improbable that it 
became evident she was romancing. I hoped Morry 
would let her go. The jury must see by now that 
part of her tale at any rate was untrue. (He ex¬ 
plained to me afterwards that he dared not, because 
he was afraid of Hendricks. If she had been released 
without being forced into an admission that the sub¬ 
stantial part of her evidence was false, Hendricks 
might have persuaded the jury that although she had 
invented details under pressure, the main fact stood.) 

She made a statement that was absurd. 

“Did that actually happen?” asked the judge in¬ 
credulously. / 



A WOMAN TRAP 


163 


The miserable Dutch doll protested that it did. 

Her story became wilder and wilder. 

“But, really!” expostulated the judge. “We seem 
to be getting into the Arabian Nights. Think what you 
are saying.” 

The witness was trembling visibly. 

“Sit down and compose yourself.” 

She sat down, but composure was beyond her. 
After a pause, which seemed very long, she retracted 
what she had said. The judge reminded her in 
quietly severe tones that she was there to state facts. 
“You have been indulging your imagination in the 
endeavour to explain how and why certain things 
happened. That is not necessary. Simply say what 
happened. That is all that is required.” 

She made a fresh effort—oh, that poor head! it 
was nearly jerked off—only to stumble afresh and 
contradict herself. The judge warned her again. 

“You said a few minutes ago”—he read a passage 
from his notes. “Now you say”—he repeated the 
words she had just uttered. “Which statement is true? 
Both cannot be.” 

The witness collapsed. She was assisted from the 
box, taken into an adjoining room, and restored to 
some degree of self-control. Then she came back, 
and was put on the rack again. Morry tightened the 
cords with questions such as no man ought to be 
allowed to put to a woman against her will. I 
felt that when the case was over I should have either 
to boil my mind in a strong solution of soda or send 
it to the cleaners’. 

Next morning, she was not there. Hendricks be- 


164 


MORRY 


came uneasy, and talked to Mrs. Mallynge. A clerk 
was sent out of court. The judge entered. Hend¬ 
ricks got up and stated that the witness under cross- 
examination had not arrived and had been sent for. 

The judge said: “Then I think you should see this. 
I have, of course, no means of knowing whether it 
is a genuine document.” He gave a letter to the 
clerk of the court, who passed it to Hendricks. Hend¬ 
ricks glanced at it, showed it to Mrs. Mallynge, and 
asked a question. Mrs. Mallynge, very white, 
assented. 

Hendricks read the letter, and gave it to Morry. 
Morry read it, and passed it to his official junior and 
me. It was from Miss Hautwreck, and had appar¬ 
ently been written the previous night, as it announced 
the writer’s intention of leaving England “by the early 
train in the morning.” Mr. Mallynge had never 
behaved to her otherwise than as a gentleman ordi¬ 
narily does to a lady who is his wife’s friend. Mrs. 
Mallynge had grown cold to her, and then, some 
time after the separation, had come and begged for 
her help. “She promised that everything should be 
the same again between us, so I consented for friend¬ 
ship’s sake. She said she would give me a thousand 
pounds when it was all over, but I didn’t say I would 
take it.” They had concocted the story between 
them. 

The same afternoon Nesta rang me up. “Is that 
you, Dick?” 

“Hallo, old thing! Where are you speaking 
from?” 

“Alice Mountjoy’s.” 


A WOMAN TRAP 


165 


6 ‘Taken shelter from the storm?”—Nesta called 
Mrs. Mountjoy’s flat her “refuge in time of trouble.” 
O’Donovan Mack had recently published a book in 
which the leading painters of the day were savagely 
attacked, and, naturally, it had aroused resentment. 
—“How long are you staying?” 

“Until Riette comes home. Then I am going to 
live with her.”—Riette was Lady V. 

I experienced a slight shock. “You don’t mean—” 

“Yes, I do, Dick. But don’t let’s talk about it. 
Look me up sometime.” 

“He has never been a husband to me.” Nesta was 
looking away; a bright red spot burned in the cheek 
that was visible. 

“Good Lord!”—I thought of O’Donovan Mack’s 
behaviour with women since I had known him: his 
trick of making friends with them in droves, his 
avoidance of special relations with any one.—“What 
did he marry you for, then?” 

“For protection. He called me his corn-plaster.” 

“Translate.” 

“His habit of getting fools of women to take their 
clothes off so that he might see their figures led to 
difficulties. He thought that if he were married there 
would be fewer such misunderstandings.” 

I choked down my disgust and tried to look at the 
position calmly. “I think you could get the marriage 
annulled. I am not certain, but I will find out.” 

Nesta blazed. “Do you think I am going to 
stand up before a lot of men and be asked questions 
such as Morry put to that wretched creature yes¬ 
terday?” 


166 


MORRY 


So she had been reading the reports. They had 
been what the average man describes as very o-t, 
although carefully edited. I endeavoured to make the 
best of it. 

“Unless your petition were opposed-” 

“Of course Don would oppose it. He would jump 
at the chance of the publicity, and he would enjoy 
watching me being forced to talk openly about things 
I hate talking about at any time.” She stamped her 
foot passionately. “Don’t you understand, Dick? I 
hate all that kind of thing. I never wanted to know 
anything about it except in a natural way. Nothing 
would have induced me to go into that court and 
listen to that filth if I had not felt that I must know 
exactly what I might have to go through if I ever 
did make up my mind to it. And now I do know, 
nothing will ever induce me to go through it. Do 
you hear? Nothing—ever.” 

I was horror-struck. “Were you in court?” 

“Of course I was. Your clerk got me in. I told 
him not to tell you.” 

I could say no more. No sensitive woman can be 
expected to submit to a procedure so utterly out of 
accord with modern ideas, unless she is driven to 
it in defence of her honour. I am not arguing that 
divorce ought to be made easier; that is another ques¬ 
tion altogether. I say that the way in which disputed 
cases are dealt with is a relic of medievalism, and 
ought to be reformed entirely. The proceedings as 
at present conducted are an outrage on public 
decency. There must be many hundreds, there may 
well be thousands, of women who have committed no 



A WOMAN TRAP 


167 


fault and have been grievously wronged, but cannot 
bring themselves to pass through the torture-mill of 
the divorce court as the price of freedom. And why 
should such a price be exacted from them? 


CHAPTER IX 


Glimpses 

Nesta remained with the Vochlears. Her position 
became less difficult after a while. O’Donovan Mack, 
having succeeded in quarrelling with everybody con¬ 
nected with the art-world in England, went off to the 
States; Nesta called herself simply Mrs. Mack, and 
the short-memoried world forgot the episode of her 
marriage and the separation. We saw each other 
fairly frequently as long as I continued to live in 
London, although I no longer went to the house except 
for the express purpose of seeing her, and conse¬ 
quently did not like to go often. Lady V’s parties 
had ceased to be to my taste. There was too much 
money indirectly visible; not that she gave one the 
impression of running after moneyed people—she 
did not appear capable of running after anybody, 
even if she had needed to do so—but that moneyed 
people ran after her, if they were not in with the 
right crowd. Lady V was in with it: sometimes she 
seemed to believe that she was it. 

Morry and Nesta met occasionally in the social 
world, and twice during this time they came to Clif¬ 
ford’s Inn. I think it was on the second of these 
evenings that, after Nesta had gone, I told Morry why 
she left her husband. In conclusion I said: 

“Isn’t it damnable how things get tangled up? If 
ever there was a girl who would have made a good 
168 


GLIMPSES 


169 


wife, it’s Cockles. Yet she goes and marries a man 
who, in spite of his abilities, is an absolute rotter.” 

Morry was standing by the door, with his hat in 
his hand, about to leave. He had paused to hear my 
final remarks. Just before he went out he raised his 
eyes and looked at me for a moment. I was sitting 
in an armchair, with a pipe in my mouth, and a 
glass in my hand containing the remains of a whisky- 
and-soda, in that comfortable frame of mind when 
one’s only regret is that everyone is not as comfortable 
as oneself. Afterwards it struck me that he had 
looked as if he would like to ask for an explanation 
—as if he were wondering about something. 

My health broke down, and for several years I 
only came to England for the summer months. My 
connection with Morry in his profession, such as it 
had been, came to an end. 

Whenever I came to London, I called in Regent’s 
Park, and twice I stayed there. Jess and David and 
Mariel never failed to make much of me. Morry 
was glad to see me, too, but his time was so much 
taken up that, except when we all went down to the 
country house he had acquired in Buckinghamshire, 
my intercourse with him in private was limited to 
luncheons on Saturdays when we went to cricket 
matches afterwards, and evenings when we dined 
together and went to a theatre or to the National 
Sporting Club. Morry’s taste for cricket and boxing 
matches was one of the odd ingredients in his charac¬ 
ter; apart from the fact that he had played cricket and 
boxed at school and as a student, I think he enjoyed 


170 


MORRY 


those forms of contest because they were so different 
from the form of contest in the courts. 

In one way these glimpses of Morry left me sad¬ 
dened. He was moving steadily onwards in the path 
he had chosen, but it seemed to me that he was drying 
up. Each time it became more difficult to get the 
feeling of being in real touch; it was as if on the 
succcessive occasions there was less and less to get 
in touch with. Jess felt the same thing, as she told 
me once in a confidential talk over the fire. I do not 
usually discuss one friend with another, whatever the 
relation between them may be; but Jess loved and 
admired Morry so greatly that with her there was no 
suspicion of being treasonable. She said that most 
of the time he did not know what happened in the 
house or to those by whom he was surrounded, and 
if some event forced itself upon his notice, he only 
came out of his absorption for the moment. For 
instance, Dan lost his wife, of whom he was very 
fond, and Morry subsequently forgot it; several times 
in the course of the next twelve months, when speak¬ 
ing to Jess about making up a dinner or week end 
party, he said: “We might have Dan and Julia.” 
Now, Morry never ceased to be grateful to Dan, as 
well as to Joe, for giving him his chance at the bar; 
and he liked Dan—he had a real affection for him. 
Yet so little did the things that mattered to Dan touch 
Morry that even such a calamity as Julia’s death 
was swept out of his mind by the current of his 
preoccupations. 

There were tide-marks of prosperity. Thus, one 
year, the door in Regent’s Park was opened to m^ 


GLIMPSES 


171 


by a butler. He was one of Morry’s people, and 
physically an unusually fine specimen of the race—a 
broad-shouldered fellow with a deep chest. I had a 
vague impression that his features were familiar, and 
thought he must have been in service at some house 
where I had formerly been in the habit of visiting. 

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” 

“Possibly, sir. Whom shall I say?” 

I thought I must be mistaken. 


CHAPTER X 


The Story of the Chateau Heritage 

The doctors patched me up at last so far that I 
decided to take my chance of dying in London instead 
of living elsewhere. I returned to England one April 
and re-installed myself at Clifford’s Inn. I had only 
had one glimpse of Morry, but I had seen Nesta 
several times, when, a couple of months after my 
return, I bought an evening paper on a Monday after¬ 
noon and read that a burglary had taken place the 
previous night at Sir Adrian Vochlear’s house in 
Berkeley Square. Securities of considerable value 
had been removed by the burglars. 

Sir Adrian was away; his departure for South 
America, to inspect rubber properties on the Amazon, 
had been chronicled some time before. I rang up 
Nesta. 

“What’s happened, old thing? I see you’ve been 
burgled.” 

“Yes. Riette is in a dreadful state about it.” 

“Were you both at home?” 

“I wasn’t. I was away for the weekend.” 

“Did Lady V see anything of the burglars?” 

“Rather, poor dear. They tied her up.” 

“Good heavens! What an experience!” 

“Yes, awful, wasn’t it? They didn’t hurt her 
much, but of course it was a serious shock. And the 
loss of the securities is a terrible trouble to her.” 

“Were they worth much?” 

172 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 173 


“Over a quarter of a million,” replied Nesta non¬ 
chalantly. 

“What? You’re pulling my leg.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

“You sound wonderfully calm about it, then.” 

“The house is insured.” 

“How on earth came Lady Y to have such a sum 
at home?” 

“I can’t explain that to you, Dick. It had to do 
with her family affairs. She is trustee for her 
cousins.” 

“It seems weird.” 

“Yes. She’s awfully distressed. She takes the 
view that she is personally responsible. It has upset 
her completely. However, it will come out all right. 
The police will probably recover most of the bonds 
and things, don’t you think?” 

It seemed to me that it would be difficult for 
burglars to negotiate share certificates and so forth 
to the value of anything like a quarter of a million. 
I said so. 

“Yes. However, we shall see. The insurance is 
all right, anyway.” 

“Let me know if I can be of assistance.” 

“Right you are. Good-bye.” Nesta hung up. 

I knew that Sir Adrian was wealthy, and I had 
heard, at some time or other, that Lady V was a rich 
woman on her own account. Still, a quarter of a 
million! And who keeps securities in a house? 

Ten days later Nesta rang me up again with further 
details. 

“Dick, that trouble over the burglary is worse than 


174 


MORRY 


I thought. The insurance people are making diffi¬ 
culties. I think you might be able to help. Can 
you come round?” 

I said I could, and went. I found Nesta with Lady 
V in the latter’s boudoir. Lady V was very eau-de- 
Cologney and very pale: I didn’t think the pallor 
signified much, because she usually made up. 

After some preliminaries, which showed me Lady 
V’s concern for her relatives, she said to Nesta: “Tell 
him about the burglary, cherie. I am sick of repeat¬ 
ing it.” 

Nesta explained that Lady V had already been 
obliged to describe the events of the Sunday night 
three times to the police, once to the insurance brok¬ 
ers, and again to a man they sent up. She went to 
bed in the usual way about midnight, it seemed, and 
was awakened about an hour or two later by some¬ 
thing being pressed over her eyes. A hand seized her 
chin, her mouth was forced open, and a gag inserted. 
She tried to scream, but could not be sure whether 
she succeeded or not. She struggled, and someone 
held her feet. The handkerchief over her eyes was 
tied round her head, the key of the strong room 
detached from its chain at her neck, she was rolled 
in the bedclothes like a mummy and corded up. 
After an interval she thought she heard the rustling 
of papers, and after another interval the sound of 
retreating footsteps. Then, silence. For a long time 
she tried to wriggle free of her bonds; eventually 
she fell into a doze, from which she was awakened 
in the morning by her maid. Released, she at once 
sent for the police. They came, gave a great deal of 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 175 

trouble, and did nothing, professing to be wholly at 
a loss. 

After discussing various points in this, and remark¬ 
ing that I should want to see the maid, I said to 
Lady V: 

“I should like to be enlightened as to/how you came 
to have such an immense sum in the house.” 

“Yes. If you are to help us, you have a right to 
know everything. Well, I have confided my secret 
to few. I have never even told my dearest friend.” 
She put out a hand to Nesta, and Nesta took and held 
it. “But I suppose I must tell you. You must 
promise, on your word of honour, to respect my con¬ 
fidence.” 

I promised. 

Then Lady V told me the story of the Chateau 
heritage. 


When Frangois Chateau lay dying in a village in 
the Western Soudan, civilisation was represented 
solely by his escort, a French lieutenant and a dozen 
Hausa soldiers. 

He wanted to make a will. He could not write 
because he had lost the use of his limbs through the 
disease that had stricken him down. He called the 
lieutenant. 

“Yes, Monsieur Chateau.” 

“I wish my children to share the income from my 
estate during their lives. Afterwards the money is 
to be divided among my grandchildren. You will tell 
the Governor-General.” 


176 


MORRY 


“Yes, Monsieur Chateau.” The lieutenant said to 
himself that this could have no legal force; he was 
the son of a notary, and knew how wills must be made 
according to French law. If Monsieur Chateau had 
been a soldier on active service, a verbal expression 
of his wishes would have sufficed; but Monsieur Cha¬ 
teau, although the wealthiest man in West Africa and 
a friend of the Governor-General, was a civilian: it 
was impossible for him to make a valid will. 

The lieutenant humored the dying man, however, 
and took out his notebook. 

“ ‘Will of Frangois Chateau, trader, of Porto 
Novo,’ ” he recited as he wrote. “ T bequeath the 
income from my estate to’—how many children have 
you, Monsieur Chateau?” 

“Five.” 

“—‘to my five children, one-fifth part to each,’ ” 
wrote the lieutenant, conscientiously adopting a legal 
style. “ ‘And after the death of the last surviving 
child the estate is to be distributed among my then 
surviving grandchildren in equal shares.’ Is that 
correct?” 

“Correct.” 

The lieutenant congratulated himself. At least the 
family would know exactly what Monsieur Chateau’s 
wishes had been. 

The Governor-General of French West Africa, 
Monsieur Bonamy, was a humane, * sensible man. 
Desiring to put an end to a desultory war with an 
emir in the interior, who was hindering trade by 
plundering caravans, he had begged his friend Cha¬ 
teau to undertake the task of bringing the emir to 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 177 


reason. When the lieutenant returned with the news 
of the sad termination of the mission, he received, 
first, the Governor-General’s thanks, official and per¬ 
sonal; second, a confidential communication which 
surprised him; third, a short lecture on the advantages 
likely to ensue to a young officer who could observe 
the golden rule as to discretion. 

The communication was that the Governor-General, 
in entrusting Chateau with his important mission, 
had thought well, in view of possible eventualities, 
to give him temporary rank as captain in the French 
Army. In order to spare the lieutenant’s feelings, it 
had been arranged that Chateau should keep this fact 
to himself unless it became necessary to reveal it. 

The lieutenant observed the' golden rule as to dis¬ 
cretion. He said nothing when he was asked to sign a 
list of Chateau’s personal effects as brought back 
by him. The list had been prepared at the Palace of 
Government, and mentioned a captain’s commission 
dated before their departure from Porto Novo. The 
lieutenant had never seen this; but he signed, without 
a word. Monsieur Bonamy was an autocrat in fact 
though not in theory, because he was a popular man, 
a Governor-General heartily supported by the Press, 
and the public. If Monsieur Bonamy chose to vali¬ 
date Chateau’s will by making him into a soldier 
after he was dead, the lieutenant was not disposed to 
question it. 

The friendship between Monsieur Bonamy and 
Chateau dated back to the time when Chateau was a 
newcomer to West Africa. He had not been a poor 
man then: from the day of his arrival he had dis- 


178 


MORRY 


posed of a considerable bank credit. As the official 
rose in the service, the trader extended his opera¬ 
tions until trading stations and mining properties 
and plantations covered an immense area. Bonamy 
was an ardent patriot, a firm believer in France’s 
imperial mission. The two had worked together, and 
respected each other. It had sometimes been re¬ 
marked at the Palace of Government that Monsieur 
le Gouverneur-General displayed towards the trader 
a singular degree of respect. Colonial governors do 
not usually make close personal friends of members 
of the trading community. 

True, Monsieur le Chateau was a remarkable man 
in many ways. In repose, his face was haughty; the 
rather prominent eyes looked out on the world coldly; 
but when his attention had been aroused, his manner 
was singularly pleasant. Also, he was a much better 
educated man than traders usually are; he spoke 
French, German, and English so well that any one 
of the three might have been his native tongue. 

Monsieur Bonamy sent the notebook containing 
Frangois Chateau’s wishes to the eldest son, Joseph, 
at Paris, together with an official certificate that at 
the time he expressed them he had been a soldier on 
active service, and an account by the lieutenant of 
the last scene. After the usual friendly condolences 
and an expression of his sense of personal loss, Mon¬ 
sieur Bonamy went on: 

“Your father told me, at different times, a good 
deal about his affairs, and I think you will find that 
the bulk of his property is here. There need be no 
difficulty as to the realisation of that if you will 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 179 


permit me to see to it. But as to what there is in 
France you may meet with difficulties. I should 
advise you to secure whatever there may be without 
the usual legal formalities, if possible. I have sent 
you the record of his wishes, and the certificate which 
makes it a valid will, as a precautionary measure. 
Do not use the latter unless you are obliged.” 

Joseph Chateau was surprised by this, although 
not so much as might be expected. He had been too 
young during his mother’s lifetime to speculate as 
to his father’s origin and connexions. But, later, 
he had begun to do so, and on one occasion had 
endeavoured to elicit some information from his 
father. Frangois Chateau had not responded, and he 
was not a man to be questioned against his will. 
Joseph and the other members of the family had 
therefore known that there was a mystery. 

He called them together: Elizabeth, the eldest sister, 
who was married; Otto, also married, who was rather 
weak in character; Rodolphe, a gay bachelor; and 
Seraphine, likewise unmarried, who had made her 
home with relatives of their mother’s. 

They discussed the problem uneasily. They had 
an idea that their father’s property in Africa was 
considerable, because he had never appeared to be 
in want of money, and had dealt with them in gen¬ 
erous fashion. Each of the three sons had been 
set up in business, Elizabeth had received a sub¬ 
stantial dowry, and Seraphine a liberal allowance. 
Also, Joseph, having acted as his father’s purchasing- 
agent, knew that there was a bank balance at the 
Credit Bourdonnais. They knew of nothing else: 


180 


MORRY 


the house their father formerly had in Paris, together 
with the furniture, had been sold long before. 

They decided to constitute themselves, informally, 
a Family Council, the question of obtaining legal 
powers to be left over. Meantime they would be 
bound strictly by the conditions of the will. It was 
agreed that Joseph should act as administrator. He 
was deputed to go to the bank and arrange, if pos¬ 
sible, that the account should be transferred to his 
name. Monsieur Bonamy’s offer to wind up the 
estate in Africa was gratefully accepted. 

Joseph went to the bank. The manager demurred. 
He said that another person laid claim to the money. 

“Who?” 

The bank-manager would not say; he professed 
not to know. 

“How did you learn the fact, then?” 

“From the Ministry of the Interior.” 

Joseph Chateau went to the Ministry of the Interior. 
After being sent from pillar to post, he succeeded 
in interviewing the minister. The minister said that 
his colleague at the Quai d’Orsay had requested him 
to take the step. The Quai d’Orsay is the Foreign 
Office. 

“But why?” 

The Home Secretary, as he would be called in 
England, shrugged his shoulders. 

Joseph Chateau went to the Foreign Office, and 
again was sent from pillar to post. Again, he eventu¬ 
ally arrived in the cabinet of the minister. 

The Foreign Minister said that he regretted nothing 
could be done in the way of lifting the embargo. 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 181 


Joseph Chateau demanded further explanation. 

The minister, with much circumlocution, indicated 
that a Certain Person, not a citizen of the French 
Republic, nor resident in France, laid claim to the 
money. 

“Who?” 

The minister would not say. 

“On what ground is the claim put forward?” 

“On the ground that your father was a foreigner, 
and subject to certain special laws in his own country 
which made him incapable of willing away his 
property.” 

“That is nonsense,” exclaimed Joseph Chateau with 
asperity. “My father was a Frenchman.” 

“It may be so,” responded the minister affably, 
“but I am told not.” 

Joseph could get nothing more out of him. He 
knew when and where his parents had been married, 
and it occurred to him now, for the first time, that 
his father must then have given particulars as to his 
birth. He obtained a copy of the marriage certificate. 
His father had stated that he was the son of certain 
persons at Bar-sur-Aube: he had also given his age. 
In a discreet way Joseph made inquiries at Bar-sur- 
Aube. The result was startling. There had been a 
Frangois Chateau, the son of the persons named, but he 
was not Joseph Chateau’s father; he had lived in the 
town all his life. 

At a second meeting of the Family Council it was 
decided that no further steps should be taken until 
Monsieur Bonamy had been consulted. Joseph wrote 
to Monsieur Bonamy. Monsieur Bonamy replied 


182 


MORRY 


that he was coming to Europe, and would call on the 
son of his old friend. Then, perhaps, matters might 
to some extent be cleared up. 

Monsieur Bonamy came. He told Joseph Chateau 
that, as a good Frenchman, he must let that money in 
the bank go. There must not be any legal proceed¬ 
ings, because if there were political complications 
would ensue. 

“I had my difficulties too,” said Monsieur Bonamy 
with a smile. “But on my own ground I have my 
own ways of dealing with those who try to interfere 
with me. I told the Colonial Office that your father’s 
estate was subject to claims by the colony, and that 
when they were satisfied there would be little left. 
There will be very little left, Monsieur Joseph. Take 
this, and take good care of it.” 

He opened the portfolio he had brought with him, 
and took from it a dozen cheques, all for substantial 
sums, on London; traders’ bills, payable in Marseilles 
and Hamburg; bankers’ bills; bonds of the colony, 
and debenture bonds of French and English com¬ 
panies: the value of the whole being over a quarter 
of a million pounds. 

Joseph Chateau was dumbfounded. He had never 
dreamed that his father could be so wealthy. 

“You and your brothers and sisters will be satisfied 
with that?” asked Monsieur Bonamy. 

Joseph said he had every reason to believe that his 
brothers and sisters would be satisfied as he was. 

“Impress on them the necessity for secrecy,” urged 
Monsieur Bonamy. “If anything connected with the 
affair is made public, the Person who has put his 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 183 


finger on the money in the bank might put it on some 
of these securities.” 

“But what are we to do with them?” exclaimed the 
perplexed Joseph. “If I pay these into a bank”—he 
indicated the cheques and bills—“or put these in a 
safe deposit”—he pointed to the permanent securities 
—“that may happen just the same.” 

“Send the cheques and bills to New York,” replied 
Monsieur Bonamy. “Let an American bank collect 
the money and buy bonds with it. Have them sent to 
you, and keep them yourself, along with these I have 
brought you.” 

Joseph objected that the Finger might reach to 
New York. 

Monsieur Bonamy replied that the Americans 
s’en fiched —which is French for not caring a damn 
—about mysterious personages and underground dip¬ 
lomatic manoeuvres: “like me,” added good Monsieur 
Bonamy. 

Joseph reflected. “I must not ask you who the 
mysterious person is?” 

“I could not tell you with certainty, although I 
might make a near guess,” replied Monsieur Bonamy. 

“Nor who my father was? You know, I presume?” 

“Yes, I know, but I must not tell you,” replied 
Monsieur Bonamy. “Perhaps you can guess for your¬ 
self, Joseph, son of Francis and brother to Otto and 
Rodolphe.” 

Joseph turned pale. 

“Better not guess,” concluded Bonamy, laying a 
paternal hand on the shoulder of the perturbed man. 
“Guessing is a bad habit. Let well alone.” 


184 


MORRY 


The Family Council passed a unanimous vote of 
thanks to Monsieur Bonamy, and agreed that his 
advice should be followed. Joseph sent the cheques 
and bills to New York, directing the American bank 
to realise them and purchase bonds to bearer; these, 
when received, he placed with those brought by 
Bonamy in a safe in his bedroom. He collected the 
interest, as it fell due, through the bank, and, year 
by year, called a meeting of the Family Council, pre¬ 
sented his statement of accounts, and divided the 
income in accordance with the will. 

Matters went on in this way until Mariette, Joseph’s 
elder daughter, came of age, and therefore entitled 
to a seat and voice in future Family Councils. About 
this time, Seraphine, the youngest of Frangois Cha¬ 
teau’s children, became seriously ill; she was con¬ 
sequently unable to attend the first meeting at which 
the younger generation had a representative. 

The elders had seen no difficulty in regard to the 
provisions of the will. They had enjoyed the large 
addition to their incomes, and therewith they were 
content. 

“What is to happen if Aunt Seraph dies?” inquired 
Mariette in the pause following on the presentation 
of the accounts. 

The elder generation felt that there was something 
almost indecent in the query. Joseph, as presiding, 
and as Mariette’s father, reproved her. 

“That is not a proper question for you to put, my 
child.” 

Mariette apologised. “I should not have men¬ 
tioned my aunt’s name. But, when any one of you 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 185 


dies? What happens then, as to the distribution of 
the income?” 

Aunt Elizabeth said tartly that she would not put 
up with having her possible death thrust under her 
nose by her own niece, but the men looked at each 
other. No one had thought of that before. 

Mariette tried to follow up her advantage. “We 
think that his or her share of the income should be 
divided equally among us.” 

“Who are ‘we’?” inquired her father. 

“Myself and Lois, and our cousins.” 

Lois was her sister. They had five cousins—Aunt 
Elizabeth’s three girls, colloquially known as “the 
Bouchettes,” Aunt Elizabeth being Madame Bouchon; 
and Uncle Otto’s son Hamond and his daughter 
Athalie. 

The elder generation was unanimously indignant 
at the idea that it might be dictated to by the younger. 
But as to what ought to be done when the inevitable 
should happen, opinions differed. There was no 
explicit direction on the point in the will: what was 
to be inferred from it as to their father’s intentions? 

Joseph adopted the principle of Mariette’s sugges¬ 
tion with a variation in the manner of applying it; 
he said the income-share of a deceased member of the 
elder generation ought to descend to his or her chil¬ 
dren. 

Otto, who was notoriously henpecked, wished to 
amend this in favour of surviving wife or husband 
for life, and then to the children. Aunt Elizabeth 
approved. 

“Aunt Seraph and Uncle Rodolphe may never 


186 


MORRY 


marry,” observed Mariette, “and if they do, they may 
not have children. Whatever rule is made, it should 
apply all round.” 

“Quite so,” said Rodolphe approvingly. “The 
right course is that when one of us passes away, the 
income shall continue to be divided among the sur¬ 
vivors.” 

“So that eventually one of you would have it all. 
How do you justify that under the will? It says you 
are to have one-fifth each.” 

This was undeniable. Rodolphe was nettled. He 
reflected. 

“Then the correct answer must be that the income 
share lapses.” 

“You mean, that when one of you dies the share 
should be added every year to the principal?” 

“That is what I mean.” 

“What would be the sense of that? It would 
eventually come to us in a lump along with the rest. 
We might just as well have it meantime.” 

Mariette was wrong there, as she afterwards saw. 
Rodolphe’s second suggestion would benefit the sur¬ 
viving members of the elder generation as their 
number diminished, because the value of the estate 
would be increased annually by the share of those 
deceased, and the dividends would consequently 
become larger. Rodolphe had seen this, and the 
other men saw it too; but they could not well put 
it forward as an argument, so they decided to leave 
the question over till the next meeting. 

Meantime, it was discussed. In most French house¬ 
holds matters of family interest are freely talked 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 187 


about, and the younger members have the advantage 
of learning the facts. Mariette’s boldness at the meet¬ 
ing, which was much commented on, won the admira¬ 
tion of her sister and cousins. She had constituted 
herself their champion. Aunt Elizabeth reflected that 
she had three daughters, and if Mariette’s suggestion 
were adopted they would be safe whatever happened, 
whereas if it were not, and she herself were the first 
to pass, they might be old women before they bene¬ 
fited. She signified to her niece that she would sup¬ 
port her at the next meeting. 

The men, however, had thought of a strong argu¬ 
ment for their point of view. It was this: The 
younger generation did not benefit under the will as 
a body; only those who outlived the last surviving 
member of the elder generation were entitled to 
benefit. This carried the day. It was decided that 
the share of a deceased elder should lapse, the amount 
to be added annually to the estate. 

Mariette did not find her prestige diminished by 
defeat. As, one after the other, her cousins and her 
sister came of age and joined the Family Council, she 
was their natural leader. Aunt Elizabeth invariably 
agreed to whatever she said. Her influence was en¬ 
hanced by her marriage to an English baronet, a 
wealthy man and a figure in the financial world. This 
opened up sources of information as to investments 
of which her father was not slow to avail himself. 
He consulted her regularly, and eventually she shared 
in the management of the estate. 

Aunt Seraphine survived as an invalid, living in 
seclusion. Rodolphe married, and had a daughter. 


188 


MORRY 


Otto passed away, and Lois, Mariette’s sister, died 
in childbirth. Joseph, as he grew older, left matters 
more and more to Mariette, who came over from 
London for the meetings of the Family Council, and 
virtually dominated it, except that as long as Rodolphe 
lived it was impossible for her to obtain a reversal of 
the decision as to the lapsed shares. He became 
avaricious in his later years, and clung obstinately to 
the power which the decision conferred on the elder 
generation of refusing anything to the younger as 
long as it survived. After his death, Joseph, mel¬ 
lowed by age, was willing that his daughter and 
nephews and nieces should enjoy thenceforth some 
portion of the heritage which would ultimately be 
theirs. Elizabeth offered no objection. 

But a fresh difficulty arose. Seraphine had been a 
party to the original arrangement, being at that time 
capable of dealing with business matters; since, she 
had become childish, and when Joseph went to see 
her as to altering it, she was obviously unable to 
take in what he said. His rigid sense of honour 
admitted no modification to her detriment unless 
she fully understood and agreed to it. Before he died 
he made Mariette swear that she would never permit 
anything of the kind. 

When he passed away, and of the elder generation 
Aunt Elizabeth was alone capable of taking over the 
trusteeship, she repudiated the responsibility in favour 
of her eldest niece. The younger members of the 
family unanimously supported the proposal. 

Mariette consented, but wished to make a condition. 
The securities must be lodged in a safe deposit. 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 189 


The others opposed this. The plan adopted had 
worked well. Why could not Mariette continue it? 

Mariette objected that there was the risk of 
robbery. 

This was pooh-poohed. In Paris, perhaps. Paris 
was a terrible place to live in. One never knew when 
one might be robbed. But in London there was 
nothing to fear. The English were honest. 

Mariette could not shake their childlike faith, so 
she had to give way. She took the securities to 
London, and had a closet in her bedroom converted 
into a strong-room. The total value of the bonds was 
three hundred and twenty thousand pounds, to which 
sum the estate had grown through the choice of good 
investments and the increment of the lapsed shares. 

Time went on. Aunt Elizabeth died, preceded to 
the grave by a few months by one of her daughters. 
Of the elder generation, Aunt Seraphine, the weak¬ 
ling, alone survived, and for a decade her life stood 
between the six cousins and a fortune which grew 
every year by four-fifths of the income. In the nine 
years following Elizabeth’s death the value of the 
heritage increased to half a million sterling. Most of 
it was invested in America. 

Then came disaster. The American financial crisis 
cost the heirs half of their prospective fortune. The 
blow was severe to Mariette. She was not to blame; 
she had merely followed in the footsteps of her 
father, who had always preferred American invest¬ 
ments because there seemed less likelihood of the 
Finger reaching so far, and in choosing one or another 
she had taken the advice of the shrewdest financial 


190 


MORRY 


experts of the day, including her own husband. Never¬ 
theless, she offered to resign the trusteeship, and 
was surprised as well as touched when her cousins 
refused to allow her to do so. There were now only 
four of them—Hamond, Otto’s son, had been killed 
in a motor accident—and they unanimously exoner¬ 
ated her. A precautionary measure was adopted 
which ought to have been taken long before; Mariette 
was authorised to insure the contents of the strong¬ 
room. 

Aunt Seraphine lingered for another year. When 
at last her long life came to an end, the sum of two 
hundred and sixty thousand pounds, represented by 
securities in the strong-room, became divisible among 
the five cousins. 

Then I understood. The explanation of the extra¬ 
ordinary fact that Lady V had kept a quarter of a 
million in her bedroom—for she, of course, was the 
Mariette of her story—was simply that these people 
were French. The French have a mania for keep¬ 
ing their money in a stocking, lest they should lose 
it, and sometimes the Nemesis of the ultra-prudent 
overtakes them. The elder generation of Chateaus, 
thoroughly frightened by the loss of the bank balance, 
had adopted a scheme which in England would 
almost have qualified them all for asylums, but which 
to French eyes had nothing out of the way about 
it. Fate, after slumbering for years, had pounced 
twice, and the fortune accumulated by Francois 
Chateau, so vigilantly guarded and augmented by two 
generations of his heirs, had vanished as though it 
had never been. 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 191 


“Frangois Chateau!” I felt a thrill. I had heard 
several versions of the story that the Austrian Emperor 
Ferdinand I. had a son the same age as his nephew 
Francis Joseph, who succeeded him; according to 
one account, he was morganatically married to the 
mother; but all agreed that mother and son dis¬ 
appeared from Austria immediately after Francis 
Joseph ascended the throne, and were never heard of 
again. Now I knew what had become of the son. 
There could be no doubt that Lady V was his grand¬ 
child, and consequently a descendant of the Haps- 
burgs. It accounted, I thought, for the extra mag¬ 
nificence of her boredom. 

She was not looking bored now. She sat up, smiling 
faintly, and gave Nesta a gilt key. 

“In the drawer in the strong-room, cherie. Merci¬ 
fully, those wretches left me my proofs.” 

While Nesta was out of the room, Lady V talked 
in her languid English drawl. She had told her 
story in French. 

“You see my position, don’t you, Mr. Youatt? I 
must pay my cousins, and I cannot keep them wait¬ 
ing. They may have anticipated matters. I know 
Athalie has. Her husband’s extravagance forced her 
to make an arrangement with her bankers, by which 
they agreed to advance her so much a year as long 
as Aunt Seraph lived, on condition that she repaid 
them, with interest, immediately Aunt Seraph died. 
Therefore, Athalie must have her money at once, or 
her position will be intolerable. But what am I to 
do? It is so very awkward that Adrian is away. If 
he only were here, something might be arranged. I 


192 


MORRY 


think it would be impossible to imagine a more un¬ 
fortunate conjunction of circumstances.” 

I was disposed to agree with her. “What is the 
nature of the difficulty with the insurance people?” 

“They raise an objection based on the securities 
being bearer bonds.” 

“But were all of them bearer bonds?” 

“Yes. Father always purchased securities of that 
kind, because, you see, if you buy inscribed stocks, 
you have to give your name, and father was afraid, 
if he did, that the agents of the Certain Person might 
find out that Joseph Chateau was the holder of 
investments to an extent which his own means could 
not account for. I followed in father’s footsteps 
for the same reason. The Certain Person, you know, 
is still alive.” 

That was so. 

“I will show you.” 

Nesta had come back with a quantity of papers. 
Lady V took them, selected a bundle and passed 
it to me. 

They were “Bought Notes” from stockbrokers or 
bankers, showing that securities had been purchased 
from time to time over a number of years. Some 
of them were addressed to Lady V, some to Sir 
Adrian, and some to Yochlear & Co. All the securi¬ 
ties were to bearer—government bonds, railway 
bonds, municipal bonds. Such isecurities can be 
dealt with in ways which make it difficult to trace 
them. 

“Didn’t the insurance company know that it was 
bearer bonds they were insuring?” 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 193 


“Oh, yes. I told them all about it. Here is my 
grandfather’s will.” 

She handed me a small notebook, such as a French 
officer carries on active service. It was open at a 
certain page, and there, written with an indelible 
pencil, in the lieutenant’s angular St. Cyr handwriting, 
was the will, duly signed and attested by him. 

I examined the book. The paper was slightly 
yellow, the colour of the binding had run at the 
edges, and was faded; the thing had a faintly fusty 
smell, as things do for ever when they have been car¬ 
ried on the person in moist tropic heat. 

“Here is his statement.” 

I glanced it over. The lieutenant had wielded a 
graphic pen. 

“Here is a photograph of my grandfather.” 

Frangois Chateau had indeed been a remarkable 
man. 

“Here is a photograph of Monsieur Bonamy, one 
that he had given to my grandfather, and found in 
his house at Porto Novo after his death. Monsieur 
Bonamy took it back and brought it home to us.” 

It was a signed photograph. I had a reasonably 
good recollection of Monsieur Bonamy’s features from 
the illustrated papers of years ago. 

“These are the estate accounts from year to year, 
all in my father’s hand until two years before his 
death; then I made them out and he signed them. 
After that they are in my hand and signed by me.” 

So they were. 

“Here are the paid cheques showing that I always 
acquitted my liability to Aunt Seraph.” 


194 


MORRY 


There were a dozen or more of them, all crossed, 
stamped with the names of the banks through whose 
hands they had passed, and cancelled. 

There was a silence. 

“Now, Dick,” said Nesta, “what do you think can 
be done?” 

“You have communicated with Sir Adrian, of 
course?” 

“We have cabled twice,” replied Lady V languidly. 
“Is it twice or three times?”—to Nesta. 

“Three times,” said Nesta. 

“Is he coming home?” 

“We don’t know. We hope so, but there has been 
no news yet. He left Manaos on the thirteenth of 
last month to go into the forest. I can’t think why 
he left on the thirteenth. He might have waited until 
the fourteenth, if he could not get away on the twelfth. 
However, that was the last news we had.” 

“You don’t even know that he has received your 
cablegrams, then? Awkward.” 

“Oh, very awkward. Everything is very awkward 
indeed just now, and everybody is being as awkward 
as they can, it seems to me—except you cherie . You 
are always a treasure.” The last part was addressed 
to Nesta. “Everybody is making bothers. I don’t 
know-” 

Lady V’s voice trailed wearily into silence. Then 
she said, in her most languid tone: 

“Take your cousin into your own room, will you, 
cherie? I must rest.” She had closed her eyes after 
ceasing to speak to me, and did not open them to 
say: “Good-bye, Mr. Youatt. Thank you so much 



STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 195 


for coming in. If you think you can help us, tell 
my dear one what you consider best to be done.” 

Nesta took me into her sitting-room, and we dis¬ 
cussed the position. I asked various questions. 

“What do the insurance people say? Why do they 
refuse to pay?” 

“I don’t know exactly,” replied Nesta. “They want 
some information which Riette cannot give. Adrian 
might know. She can’t say whether he does or not.” 

“They don’t deny liability?” 

“No, I don’t understand so. Riette thinks that it 
is because she was only insured for a quarter of a 
million, whereas the value of the securities was two 
hundred and sixty thousand. Do you think that’s it?” 

I said I could not form an opinion unless I saw 
the policy and the correspondence. “There have been 
letters, I suppose?” 

“Yes, I believe so, but I can’t tell you what was in 
them.” 

I said I should want them. “Did the police dis¬ 
cover nothing whatever in regard to the burglary?” 

“Nothing, except what anyone could see for them¬ 
selves—how the house was entered. We knew that 
without their telling us.” 

We went on discussing the matter, and the longer 
we discussed it the more blank walls appeared to 
block the way in all directions. At last, Nesta said: 

“Would Morry be any use, do you think?” 

I could have kicked myself. “What an ass I am! 
Of course, he’s our man. We are simply a couple 
of kids playing round with a thing like this, and he’s 
a past-master of the game from A to Z. I’ll go to 


196 


MORRY 


the Temple at once and see him. Put on your hat 
and come with me.” 

“I don’t think I ought to leave Riette. You go.” 

Every minute of Morry’s time was booked. He 
sent out a message asking me to return later and drive 
down to the House of Commons with him. 

I went at six, and waited. He greeted me cheerily 
as he came out of his room. 

“Well, Dick! Have you come like a ghost to 
revisit the scene of your former triumphs?” 

I said I hadn’t. We went downstairs. I began 
to tell him why I had come. He interrupted me as 
soon as I mentioned Lady Y’s name. 

“Has what you are going to say anything to do with 
a claim made by Lady Vochlear against certain 
members of Lloyd’s?” 

I said I did not know about Lloyd’s, but it had 
to do with the burglary which had taken place at 
her house, and the consequent loss of certain 
securities. 

“Have you undertaken her interests, Dick? Has 
she empowered you to see me?” 

“No. Cockles rang me up this morning and said 
they were in trouble. She asked me to go round. I 
went, and Lady V told me all about it. Then Cockles 
and I discussed what ought to be done, and she sug¬ 
gested that you might be able to help us.” 

“I am afraid I could hardly have done that in 
any case. But, as it is, I must not listen to you at 
all. I am for the other side.” 

I was taken aback. “The insurers?” 

“Yes.” 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 197 


“Have they consulted you? Have you advised 
them not to pay?” 

Morry was silent. 

I reflected that I ought not to have asked that. 
All my legal experience had been of working with 
Morry, and to find him against me was bewildering. 

I said I thought the position ridiculous. Lady V 
only wanted that to which she was entitled, and the 
poor woman and Nesta were puzzled to know what 
to do. I wished to help them if I could, but I had 
no desire to do the insurers down. Why couldn’t we 
discuss the matter? 

Morry said: “If you were to come to me as a 
fellow member of the bar, and say that Lady Voch- 
lear was your client, I should feel bound to listen 
to what you might have to say. But as it is, I must 
not. You might inadvertently reveal something which 
would tell against her, in which case it would be my 
duty to my clients to make use of it should occasion 
arise. That would be unfair to her, since she has not 
accredited you her representative.” 

“Very well. I don’t suppose she will make any 
difficulty about giving me formal authority.” 

There was a pause. 

“Dick, I hope you will not think I have any ulterior 
motive in saying that in your place I should be chary 
of undertaking anything for Lady Vochlear.” 

I retorted with heat: “I can’t well refuse to help 
her when she is Cockles’ greatest friend—the person 
she has made her home with.” 

“Ah.” I thought that Morry was digesting the 
implied reproof until he amazed me with: “Would 


198 


MORRY 


it be possible to get Nesta away, do you think?” 

“Get her to leave Lady V?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why should she?” 

“I cannot tell you that without entering into dis¬ 
cussion, Dick. But she would be saved much un¬ 
pleasantness, at the least.” 

His manner made me wonder a little, but, of 
course, I dismissed his absurd suggestion. I left 
him in the outer lobby, and went to a telephone box. 
Nesta said she would talk to Lady V and ring me up 
later. 

She telephoned next morning. Lady V, it 
appeared, thought the best thing would be for her to 
see Morry. Could I not arrange a friendly meeting? 

I said decisively that Morry could not consent to 
that. He might agree to a formal meeting: I would 
ask him. I did so. Morry was not at all willing. 

“I do not think it would serve any purpose, Dick.” 

“Not to get together—clients, solicitors, you and 
me—and talk it over? I have often heard you say it 
would be the sensible thing to do in similar cases, 
instead of fighting in the dark.” 

“The circumstances were not the same.” 

I argued that they were, near enough. Morry 
became absent-minded. 

“Very well, as you press it. I will communi¬ 
cate with Haverford, and if he and the client are 
agreeable, Duncan shall ring you up and make an 
appointment. Er—there would be no objection to 
Lady Vochlear being accompanied by Nesta, I think.” 
—I knew by this that he wished Nesta to be present. 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 199 


—“But it must be clearly understood, both by Lady 
Vochlear and whomever is with her, that I am acting 
for my clients, and not as a friend of anybody’s.” 

He meant that Nesta must understand that. 

“Quite so.” 

Lady V made some difficulty about bringing a 
solicitor—at least, Nesta did, as her mouthpiece. 

“She hates solicitors, Dick. She hasn’t one of her 
own, and she loathes the sight of Adrian’s. He’s 
rather a worm.” 

I said I had a fairly tame one, and he could be 
formally instructed. “For when shall I try to arrange 
the appointment?” 

“Whenever you like. Riette will come any day, 
at the time you say.” 

This seemed to me remarkably accommodating on 
Lady V’s part; she was like royalty in the number 
and intricacy of her engagements. But I was stag¬ 
gered when Duncan, who even in my time had always 
wanted at least a week’s grace, rang up to tell me 
we could see Morry that afternoon. 

I expressed my surprise, and said I feared we 
could not be ready. 

“Then I could not fix anything without speaking 
to Mr. Abramson again. This is a special favour to 
you, sir, of course.” 

I was flattered. “Very well.” 

I informed Nesta, warning her that it was necessary 
for Lady V to see Gaines, the solicitor, with me 
first. Then I had to dig out Gaines, and explain what 
the trouble was as we drove to Berkeley Square. I 
told him all about the burglary, but refrained from 


200 


MORRY 


betraying Lady V’s confidence as to the history of 
the securities. I merely said there was a history 
which accounted for their being kept in the house, 
but which had no connexion with the difficulty as 
to the insurance. We had to convince the other side 
that there had actually been two hundred and sixty 
thousand pounds worth of securities in the strong¬ 
room on the eve of the burglary, and that they had 
been removed by thieves: it did not matter how they 
came to be there. Gaines agreed with me. 

Lady V received us as soon as we arrived. She 
gave us the policy and a copy of her claim, which 
she had sent to the brokers through whom the in¬ 
surance had been effected, also a letter from the 
brokers acknowledging it and requesting her to send 
a list of the securities stolen. This she said she had 
done, and in reply there had been a letter asking 
for further information. “I could not understand 
what they wanted, so I rang up Mr. Roberts, and he 
said something was stamped on every bond”—Roberts 
was the broker.—“I told him I did not know anything 
about that. My husband might.” 

I asked for the letter. 

“We can’t find it. You have looked everywhere, 
haven’t you, cherie?” 

Nesta said she had. 

Gaines suggested that Roberts would give us a 
copy if we sent a messenger for it. 

“Oh, don’t bother. It is not worth while. What¬ 
ever Mr. Roberts says is only what he is told by the 
underwriters to say. It is a Mr. Feston who will not 
agree to my being paid. He was the leader on the 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 201 


insurance. I expect he will be at Mr. Abramson’s 
chambers.” 

This was not very satisfactory, but the time at 
our disposal was too short to admit of arguments as 
to how we should proceed. Gaines and I examined 
the policy: Feston was the underwriter for the first 
group, and had taken the largest risk, so it seemed 
likely that Lady V was right in her conjecture that 
he would represent the underwriters at the meeting. 
We also interviewed the maid, who had been out when 
I was there the previous day; she was French, and 
in an animated manner gave us an account of the 
scene in the bedroom on the Monday morning which 
confirmed Lady Y’s. 

Gaines went back to his office. We met again at 
the door of Morry’s chambers, and went in together. 
Lady V had not arrived, and Duncan entertained 
us with conversation while we waited. Haverford, 
a solicitor whom I knew by sight, came with another 
man, and Duncan ushered them into Morry’s room. 
When he came back I asked if the client’s name were 
Feston. Duncan said yes, with an air of reserve, and 
immediately spoke of something else. It was queer 
to sense a hostile atmosphere where I had always been 
one of the inner ring. In regard to legal problems 
I had looked on Morry as a strong tower; now it 
seemed as though my tower had leaped away from 
me, were rearing itself, hostile and impregnable, in 
my path. 

Lady V and Nesta arrived, with apologies from the 
latter for their lateness. Lady V, it appeared, had 
a nervous headache. She swam languidly into 


202 


MORRY 


Morry’s room, and greeted him in her high-pitched 
society voice with outstretched hand. 

“This is awfully good of you, Mr. Abramson. I 
have been in such trouble. Now, as my good friends 
here assure me, I may look for an end of my 
troubles.”—I, at any rate, had given her no such 
assurance.—She also greeted Feston, and, to my sur¬ 
prise, by name. Then she sank into the chair nearest 
Morry and took command of the proceedings. 

“You want to know all about this wretched affair, 
don’t you? I don’t blame you, Mr. Abramson.” She 
turned her head, or perhaps I ought to say her chin. 
“I don’t blame you either, Mr. Feston. You are both 
perfectly right.” She turned back to Morry. “The 
circumstances are unusual, and it is no wonder you 
wish for some explanation of them. I will give it 
to you. I will tell you everything.” 

And then, to my annoyance, she embarked on the 
story of the Chateau heritage. As it had nothing to 
do with the object of the meeting from a legal point 
of view, I tried to stop her, but Morry signalled to 
me to let her go on. 

She went on, omitting nothing, and once more I 
saw in my mind all those people: her grandfather, 
with his haughty air but courteous desire to please; 
her father, well-meaning and pompous; Uncle Otto, 
always taking capsules; Aunt Elizabeth, dignified and 
stupid; Uncle Rodolphe, debonair and selfish, a rake 
turning miser; Aunt Seraphine, with her perpetual 
fancywork and black lace mits; the “Bouchettes,” 
gushing and hebetees: each, with his or her peculi¬ 
arities of manner and speech, Lady V evoked with a 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 203 


turn of the words, an inflection of the voice. It was 
not until the end that I noticed the expression on 
Morry’s face. His eyes were downcast, and his 
expression reminded me of something. I could not 
recall what it was. 

Lady Y turned to Nesta. “You have the proofs, 

cherie?” 

Nesta produced them from her bag. Lady V 
offered them gracefully to Morry. “There. See for 
yourself.” 

Morry made a deprecatory gesture with his hand, 
indicating that he did not wish to examine them just 
then. He looked at me. 

I said we made a claim. I understood they were 
not satisfied about it. On what grounds? We were 
willing to meet their objections if we could. 

Morry said: “When the risk was proposed, a list 
was furnished which contained the numbers of the 
bonds to be insured. Is that agreed?” 

I looked interrogatively at Lady V. 

“I cannot say what the list contained,” she replied 
with a smile. “Sir Adrian prepared it.” 

“Here it is.” Morry handed me a typewritten 
paper. 

Gaines and I examined it. There were numbers 
against each item. We asked Lady Vochlear if it 
were the list she had originally given Roberts. 

“It may be. I really can’t say.” 

“You place us in a difficulty,” remarked Morry. 
“However, I will continue. One of the conditions of 
the policy is that if there is any change in the speci¬ 
fied risk, the insurers should be advised.” 


204 


MORRY 


Lady V replied: “I told Mr. Roberts, when I gave 
him the list, that I wished to dispose of certain securi¬ 
ties, and purchase others. I told him why—because 
I was nervous after losing so much in America, and 
wanted to be sure the money* was safe.” 

“Yes. But he warned you, that when such changes 
were made, a new list must be sent, so that Mr. Feston 
and his co-partners would still know what they were 
insuring.” 

“I have no recollection of that.” 

Morry looked at Feston, and Feston said in a low 
voice: “Roberts is positive he told you, Lady Voch- 
lear.” 

Lady V shrugged her shoulders with a helpless 
smile. “I don’t remember it.” 

“No further list was furnished,” Morry went on, 
“until the twenty-second of April, when you sent this, 
which forms the basis of claim.” He handed me 
another paper. “The items on this list differ con¬ 
siderably from those of the original one, and there 
are no numbers whatever.” 

Gaines and I compared the two lists. It was so. 

“But what difference does it make,” asked Lady 
V plaintively, “if I changed some of the bonds for 
others of equivalent value? For instance, Adrian had 
Egyptian Three per cent guaranteed by the British 
Government. I had the Four per cents Unified, which 
are not guaranteed. He pointed out that his would 
be better for me, because of the guarantee, so we ex¬ 
changed, so many of his for so many of mine, accord¬ 
ing to the market price. Why should that matter to 
Mr. Feston?” 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 205 


“Because, if you had lost the Egyptian Unified 
bonds put down here”—Morry pointed to the item in 
the original list—“Mr. Feston might have recovered 
them, as the numbers were given. But the Egyptian 
Three per cent Guaranteed in this second list he can¬ 
not recover, unless you give him the numbers. When 
Roberts asked you to furnish them, you replied that 
you could not.” 

“I explained why, Mr. Abramson,” protested Lady 
V with gentle reproach. “I did not know that the 
numbers were of importance. I never kept any record 
of them even when I had half a million pounds worth 
of bonds in the strong-room. Why should I?” 

“Because it is only by advertising the numbers that 
there is any chance of recovering such securities if 
stolen.” Morry was sticking to his point. 

Lady V looked uncomprehending and dissatisfied. 
“Of course I would help you if I could,” she mur¬ 
mured, “but really I don’t see what that has to do 
with my being insured.” 

“Let me see if I can find a way for you to help us. 
As I understand, you say that from time to time you 
sold part of the securities which were in the strong¬ 
room when you took out the policy, and substituted 
others.” 

“Yes—of an equivalent value. I was most care¬ 
ful when I sold a lot to see that the full amount was 
covered by the new purchase.” 

“Did you keep a record of such transactions?” 

“No. It seemed unnecessary to do so, when my 
aunt was expected to pass at any time, and then my 
responsibility would terminate.” 


206 


MORRY 


“Just look at the third item on the second list, will 
you?” 

“Turkish Four per cents?” 

“Yes. There are no Turkish bonds in the first list, 
I think. Therefore, those must have been purchased 
within the last twelve months.” 

“Yes.” 

“From whom?” 

“I could not say. Sir Adrian attended to all details 
for me latterly.” 

“Could you not find out from Vochlear & Co.?” 

“They don’t know. Sir Adrian attended to my mat¬ 
ters himself. I asked Mr. Martens, his partner, and 
he says they have no record of Sir Adrian’s private 
transactions.” 

“Let me try another way. Look at the second list 
again. A little way down you will see ‘100 P.L.M. 
4l/£>%.’ The third item in the first list is ‘150 P.L.M. 
4%%*’ C an you tell me whether the hundred are 
a remainder of the hundred and fifty, or a fresh lot?” 

Lady V reflected. “I am not sure. I think Adrian 
sold the original lot of P.L.M. in a block. I seem 
to remember something about it.” 

Morry looked at her for a few seconds in silence. 
“You give us no help at all.” 

“Of course I would if I could, Mr. Abramson, but 
if I don't know, I can’t, can I? All the same, I have 
lost my bonds—all these bonds on this list.” She 
held up the second one. “You may be quite sure of 
that. This is an exact copy of the list I sent to each 
of my cousins as soon as Aunt Seraph died. I asked 
them to settle amongst themselves which they would 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE, 207 


have, and I checked the list most carefully against the 
bundles in the safe. I always tied each lot up 
separately as soon as I received it and Tput a piece 
of paper on top to show what it was. Mr. Feston 
has seen.”—Feston nodded uncomfortably.—“So 
there cannot be any mistake,” concluded Lady V. 

Morry joined the tips of his fingers. “It comes to 
this. Mr. Feston and his co-partners insured securi¬ 
ties of which some at least would have been recover¬ 
able had they been stolen. You claim that he must 
pay you because securities, none of which are re¬ 
coverable, have been stolen. Had you proposed for 
insurance a quantity of bearer bonds, numbers un¬ 
specified, neither Mr. Feston nor his co-partners would 
have undertaken the risk. Yet that is what you have 
transformed it into. I cannot advise that the claim 
should be admitted.” 

I had been waiting for an opportunity to ask for 
something, and in the pause that followed found my 
chance. “When Lady Vochlear sent this second list 
to Roberts, she had a letter in reply which has been 
mislaid. Have you a copy of it?” 

Morry handed it to me. It was very short. “Dear 
Madam—Your favour of the twenty-second instant to 
hand with enclosures. Please furnish numbers of 
bonds listed and oblige.” 

I felt thoroughly vexed with her. She had told me 
that she could not understand the letter; it was clear 
that she had understood it, as she could hardly fail 
to do. Before I could find suitable words in which to 
suggest that as facts new to Gaines and myself had 
emerged, we would like to talk them over with our 


208 


MORRY 


client before going on, Lady V said in a meditative 
tone: 

“I think I see now what you mean, Mr. Abramson. 
You mean, that if I had not changed any of the 
securities, Mr. Feston would quite possibly have re¬ 
covered some of them after he had paid me, and then 
he could have £old them and made up part of his 
loss. But he could do that now, if the police find the 
thieves. They are sure to have hidden the securities 
in a cupboard, or up the chimney, or somewhere.” 

Morry shook his head. “I differ from you, Lady 
Vochlear. My view is that it is in the highest degree 
improbable that any of the securities will be traced.” 

“Because I did not keep a record of the numbers?” 

Morry made a movement of his head that might 
have meant anything. 

“Well, perhaps I have been remiss. I may have 
relied too much on Sir Adrian; he always relieved 
me of my burden as much as be could. However, 
as you think I am partly in fault, will it satisfy you 
if I agree to bear part of the loss? You see, I have 
to think of my cousins. I cannot put them off when 
they have waited so long. They have had such con¬ 
fidence in me. ... I could not face them . . .” 

She broke down. Nesta comforted her, and held 
her hand while she went on to tell Morry what a 
painful position Athalie, and for all she herself knew, 
the others, might be in if the money were not paid 
immediately. It was a distressing scene, and my 
vexation temporarily evaporated. After all, women 
have their own ways of dealing with business matters, 
as every man must recognise. 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 209 


“I owe them fifty-two thousand pounds each—two 
hundred and eight thousand altogether. Mr. Feston” 
—she turned to him with a pleading smile—“will you 
pay me a hundred and fifty thousand? Sir Adrian 
and I could make up the rest between us.” 

I saw Morry shake his head quickly at Feston. 
Feston saw it too, and replied without looking at Lady 
V: 

“I will agree to whatever Abramson agrees to.” 

She turned to Morry with a recovery of her former 
manner. “Now, Mr. Abramson. What do you say?” 

There was no relaxation in Morry’s gravity. “As 
Mr. Feston has so much faith in my judgment, I 
will venture to make a counter-offer. You told us, I 
think, that the continuance of a trust depended on the 
life of a relative who died recently?” 

“Yes, my Aunt Seraphine.” 

“An unmarried lady, I think you said?” 

Lady V assented. 

“Very well. Furnish me with a certificate of her 
death, and you shall be paid in full.” 

I was so much surprised by this complete reversal 
of his attitude that some seconds elapsed before I 
could gasp out—“Done.” He was not looking at 
me; his eyes were fixed on Lady V. He replied by 
a barely perceptible gesture which drew my atten¬ 
tion to her. 

She was staring back at him, and it seemed to me 
that under her exquisite artificial complexion she had 
paled. 

“Why do you ask for that?” All the graciousness 
had disappeared from her tone and manner. 


210 


MORRY 


“I am a lawyer,” replied Morry deliberately, “and 
it is my duty, before I advise clients to accept state¬ 
ments made to them, to require confirmation by refer¬ 
ence to external facts. I ask you for one such fact. 
Prove to me that this lady ever lived, and I shall be 
satisfied.” 

I could hardly believe my ears. I said emphati¬ 
cally: “We accept that.” 

But I had reckoned without my client. She rose 
as I spoke, and looked at Morry with the expression 
of a Medusa. 

“No,” she said in a tone of the deepest anger. 
“No. My family secrets must be respected. Because 
I have told you as much as you are entitled to know, 
it does not follow that I have told you all. Other 
persons are involved whom it is my duty to protect.” 

This was more than I could stand. I looked at 
Gaines. His expression was almost comic. 

“Lady Vochlear,” I said, choosing my words as 
well as I could, “you need have no fear that any 
improper use will be made of the document which 
Abramson wants. I am sure he will give us a guar¬ 
antee to that effect-” 

I glanced at Morry. He nodded contemptuously. 

“-and from my knowledge of him I can 

assure you that it may be relied on. If you will 
tell me when and where Mademoiselle Seraphine Cha¬ 
teau died, I will pledge myself to obtain a copy of 
the acte de deces, show it to Abramson, and hand it 
to you without anyone else seeing it. That would 
suffice for him.” 

I looked at Morry for confirmation, but he was 




STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 211 


watching Lady V. Nor did she take any notice of 
me. She merely said over her shoulder to Nesta: 

“Come, cherie. There is nothing to be done with 
these men. They are against us,” and moved to the 
door. 

I thought her the most perverse person I had ever 
come across. Gaines and I had to follow; the meet¬ 
ing was over. As soon as we were outside the door 
I whispered to him: 

“Her attitude makes it impossible for us to do 
anything. Don’t you think so?” 

He nodded with a queer smile, and I tackled our 
client as we emerged into King’s Bench Walk. I told 
her that her attitude was not reasonable. It was doubt¬ 
ful whether the insurers were liable unless she fur¬ 
nished full particulars of the lost securities, and 
under the circumstances they were entitled to ask 
instead for confirmatory evidence of her statement 
as to the circumst?mces leading up to the loss. Their 
offer was really an extraordinarily generous one. 

She replied: “I have no more to say, Mr. Youatt. 
Nothing would induce me to allow the affairs of my 
family to be pried into.” 

Heedless of Nesta’s angry eyes, I retorted: “Then it 
would be useless for me to attempt to advise you 
further, and I think Mr. Gaines feels the same.” 

“Very well.” Lady V bowed coldly, and walked 
away. 

I said something fatuous to Nesta about ringing her 
up later, and Nesta cocked her nose at me disdain¬ 
fully as she swept off after Lady V. I apologised 
to Gaines for having dragged him into so unsatis- 


212 


MORRY 


factory an affair, and expressed my inability to com- 
prehend the reason for Lady V’s actions. He looked 
at me oddly as he said that no apology was necessary; 
he added that Abramson was a very clever fellow, 
and had evidently sized our client up, or he would 
not have risked making the offer he did. 

I had intended to see Morry later and apologise to 
him too; I felt that I owed him an apology for wasting 
his time; but Gaines’ remark gave me the uncomfort¬ 
able feeling that he knew something about the affair 
that Morry also knew, but which I did not. I left 
him, and went straight back. 

Feston and his solicitor were still in Morry’s room. 
I waited twenty minutes for them to come out, and 
this gave me time for the reflection that I had mis¬ 
managed the case. I ought to have insisted on seeing 
all the correspondence with the broker before meeting 
the other side; I should then have known the real 
nature of the difficulty, and it would have been my 
duty to advise that we must wait until we were in 
touch with Sir Adrian before proceeding, our sub¬ 
sequent course to be governed by the information he 
could give. I went over all the circumstances, and it 
dawned upon me that Lady V must have prevaricated 
purposefully; she had guessed that if she let me know 
exactly how the matter stood, I should refuse to 
arrange for an interview which she desired, and could 
not secure without my intervention, until every pos¬ 
sibility of tracing the numbers of the bonds had ibeen 
exhausted. 

Haverford and Feston came out. I went in at once, 
not intending to stay longer than a couple of minutes. 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 213 


“I won’t keep you. I only want to say how sorry # 
I am your time has been wasted over such an idiotic 
business. What possesses the woman I can’t think.” 

Morry regarded me pensively. “She is no longer 
your client—she has thrown you over?” 

I said it was the other way about. 

“Ah. But you have done with her?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then I may ask a question which I very much 
wanted to ask you when you first came to me. Dick 
—do you believe her?” 

“About the value of the securities? Yes, I do. 
It is not satisfactorily established from your point 
of view, of course. In your place I should have taken 
the standpoint you did, except that I should never 
have made such a lunatic offer. What was behind it, 
Morry? Did you guess that she would peacock up 
and refuse?” 

Morry gazed at me. He said slowly: “Shall I tell 
you the exact value of the securities in the strong¬ 
room on the night of May nineteenth, when Lady 
Vochlear went to bed?” 

“I wish you would.” 

“Nothing. There was never anything of value in 
the strong-room except a few genuine bonds to salt 
the bundles of dummies when the interior was 
exhibited to dupes like Feston.” 

I was incredulous and angry. “You are making 
Lady V out to be an adventuress.” 

“That is what she is—a fraudulent adventuress.” 

“It is impossible to suppose such a thing, in view of 
her husband’s financial position.” 


214 


MORRY 


“Whatever Sir Adrian’s position may have been 
at one time, Vochlear’s to-day is an empty nut: it 
is known in the city that they cannot finance anything 
—so Feston has just been telling me.” 

“Even supposing that to be so, it does not affect 
Lady Y’s credibility.” 

“Her story is a fabrication on the face of it.” 

As Morry spoke the expression I had noticed while 
Lady V was relating her history recurred, and into 
my mind flashed the picture of our tea-table at Mir- 
field when I put the catch to him about Mary and the 
portrait. “I should say she was not speaking the 
truth.” He had the same look on his face then. 

“How can you say that?” I demanded, as a pang 
of doubt shot through me. 

“It does not hinge anywhere on to an exterior fact.” 

“That is absurd. It hinges on to any number of 
well-known facts.” 

“Give me one.” 

I reflected. It was not certain that Ferdinand I. 
ever did have an illegitimate or monganatic son. 
Bonamy was a real person, but there was no proof 
that Frangois Chateau ever existed. All the other 
Chateaus had passed beyond human ken years ago, 
according to Lady Y, except Aunt Seraphine, 
and—— 

Slowly that story crumbled away as a narrative of 
fact, and assumed its proper rank as a flight of the 
imagination. “Mary was a liar.” That was all 
there was to be said. 

“It astonishes me that you didn’t see it, Dick. You 
are generally so keen in detecting the difference be- 



STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 215 


tween fiction and fact. The story imposed on Feston, 
as it probably has on others; but I should not have 
thought you would have been taken in by it.” Morry 
spoke almost pityingly. 

A thought struck me. “Had Feston heard it before 
this afternoon, then?” 

“Of course he had. Lady Vochlear told him a year 
ago, before she opened negotiations for an insurance 
policy. That was when she showed him the interior 
of the strong-room.” 

“But didn’t he assure himself that it was full of 
real bonds?” 

Morry almost smiled. “I impute nothing against 
Lady Vochlear’s virtue,” he said with his half- 
twinkle. “I believe, on the contrary, that she always 
conducted herself with propriety. But she took 
Feston into her bedroom after a very good dinner and 
a tete-a-tete over coffee and liqueurs, in the course 
of which he heard that marvellous story, and but 
you can probably fill in the picture from experience, 

Dick.” __ 

I knew now why his tone was commiserating. He 
thought I had been Delilahed. Evidently he could 
not conceive my being such a fool as to believe that 
yarn in my right senses. Probably I had used the 
same sort of pitying looks and tones to him, when he 
was the juggins over Isola. I suddenly became aware 
that he was saying: 

“You must think of Nesta. She must be detached 
from the Vochlear household before the crash comes. 
It cannot long be delayed. Sir Adrian probably saw 
that, and bolted. Lady Vochlear apparently intends 


216 


MORRY 


to keep up the game to the last, and Nesta might be 
implicated. I have done what I could to open her 
eyes this afternoon. You are the only person, as far 
as I know, who can induce her to break the associ¬ 
ation.” 

So the meeting which I had flattered myself on 
securing had been agreed to for Nesta’s sake! It 
was a final douche of cold water. I drew my scat¬ 
tered wits together. Morry was right. Lady Y and 
her story did not really matter to me: the important 
thing was Nesta’s danger. He gave me some further 
details, and then I went to Berkeley Square. Instinct 
told me that in the forthcoming battle it would be 
wise not to quote him. 

I was ushered into the drawing-room. After a 
few minutes the servant came back and said that 
Mrs. Mack was engaged. 

I said that it was very important that I should see 
her that evening. When would she receive me? 

Nesta came in. 

“If it is about Riette’s affairs you want to see me, 
I won’t talk to you. I am sorry you were ever brought 
into them.” 

“It is about yourself.”* 

“What about me?” 

“I can’t talk to you if you are going to prance 
about. Sit down and listen properly.” 

“I haven’t time,” snapped Nesta. But she sat 
down. 

“Cockles dear-you know that I should be sorry 

if anything happened to hurt you?” 

“You hurt me this afternoon.” 



STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 217 


“I mean something much worse than that. I am 
afraid of it.” 

“What are you afraid of?” 

“Of your being used to bamboozle other people as 
you were to bamboozle me.” 

This brought the storm, as I knew it would. 

“You have no right to say that-” 

“I have every right-” 

“You are simply echoing Morry-” 

“Morry doesn’t know anything about it.” 

“What do you mean, then? How have I helped 
to deceive you—if you have been deceived?” 

“Over that letter. It was because you said you 
had looked for it, and could not find it, that I didn t 
insist on seeing it before we went to the Temple. 

“What did it matter whether you saw it before or 
not? You saw it there.” 

“I should never have consented to go on to the 
meeting if I had seen it first; that was why I was 
not allowed to see it.” 

Nesta said scornfully: “You think Riette kept it 
back on purpose?” 

“You heard her tell Gaines and me that she could 
not understand what it meant. When Morry alluded 
to it she showed instantly that she had understood it.’ 

“How do you make that out?” 

“She said that she had explained to Roberts how 
it was she could not furnish the numbers of the 
bonds. That disposes of her previous statement.” 

Nesta said “Stuff” very angrily, and glared. Then 
her eyes dropped, and she was silent for a time. 

“Morry distrusts Riette entirely, doesn’t he?” 





218 


MORRY 


“We needn’t consider his opinion at this time.” 

“I thought this afternoon that he had made up 
his mind beforehand.” 

“He is bound to take the facts into consideration— 
that is, the facts as they are presented to him.” 

“I suppose that is so,” admitted Nesta, and I was 
foolish enough to think she was being reasonable. 
“But what are the facts, Dick? I mean what are the 
facts on which Morry has formed his opinion?” 

I fell into the trap. “The police don’t believe there 
was a burglary, Cockles dear. And Feston has dis¬ 
covered that at least one lot of securities scheduled 
when the policy was taken out had been sold years 
before.” 

“How did you find out, Dick? Did Morry tell 
you?” 

“Yes,” said I rashly. “I went back after you left 
the Temple.” 

Then I got mine. 

“I knew it!” exclaimed Nesta, dropping the mask. 
“You let Morry talk you over. You were half-talked 
over this afternoon. Everything was right that he 
said, and whatever he wanted Riette to do must be 
done. You were not a bit of good. You never stood 
up to him at all.” 

I protested that I had not been given the chance. 
Lady V had conducted the proceedings on our side. 

“It is no use to make excuses. You let Morry talk 
you over. I was afraid you would. He’s your Pope 
—you think whatever he says must be right.” 

I kept my temper. “He was perfectly fair, Cockles. 
He only wanted to protect his clients, and what they 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 219 


asked for is usual in such cases. If Lady V had 
been frank with me, and shown me Roberts’ letter, 

I should have told her we must meet it. The inter¬ 
view was a mistake.” 

“Bah!” said Nesta. “You keep on about that 
letter, making a mountain out of a molehill, but you 
never even saw the molehill until you had trotted back 
to Morry. Then he sent you here, and you make an 
excuse of it to bully me.” 

The insight of women is acute, but, fortunately, 
not infallible. 

“That isn’t so. I saw it before I went back.” 

“I don’t believe you. I am sure Morry put it into 
your head that you had been bamboozled, as you 
cal1 it ‘” 

“He did not. He never mentioned it, nor did I. 
I’m not a liar, Nesta. You know that. She had 
succeeded in making me lose my temper a little; 
that was why I called her Nesta. 

It caused her to modify her tone. 4 I didn t mean 
that, Dick. But do you really say that Morry didn’t 
suggest the idea to you somehow because of what you 
said when you asked for the copy?” ^ 

“It was never alluded to in any way between us. 

She was silent for a time, and I thought I had made 
an impression. Then she said: “Well, lets get back 
to what brought you here. What are you afraid of? 
Of my being mixed up with Riette’s business affairs? 

“Yes. I am afraid that you may be led, unknow¬ 
ingly, into taking part in something that isn t hon¬ 
ourable.” ' 

“Riette is incapable of the smallest dishonourable 


220 


MORRY 


action. I am her closest friend, although she has 
heaps of others. Adrian is away. Of course I shall 
help her if I can, and in whatever way she wants.” 

“I can’t allow you* to do that.” 

Nesta blazed. “Allow! Who are you to talk of 
allowing me to do this or that? If anyone had the 
right to talk to me in that way, it would be my 
husband. You have no right at all.” 

I said: “I have to act as the head of the family, 
Tom being what he is. I forbid you to disgrace it 
by mixing yourself up with Lady V’s manoeuvres. 
She is liable to be prosecuted. Do you expect me 
to say nothing when your mistaken belief in her may 
land you in the dock?” 

Nesta stared at me in amazement. I suppose I was 
red, and appeared to be angry. Actually I was 
feeling a silly ass, and nearly spoilt the effect by 
stammering. I finished off my diatribe with: 

“Whatever some of us may have done, we have 
avoided public dishonour. The name has not been 
disgraced in eleven hundred years. Let’s keep it 
clean.” 

That finished Nesta off. We were both absurdly 
mediaeval. It was on quite a different tone, and with 
a subdued manner, that she said: 

“Riette is really incapable of anything dishon¬ 
ourable, Dick. But I admit that I don’t think she 
quite knows what she is doing. She is most fright¬ 
fully worried. It isn’t altogether business-” A 

pause, and then: “However, as you put it that way, 
1 will keep out of the business affairs for the future. 
Will that satisfy you?” 



STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 221 

“Couldn’t you go to Markhamsted for a while? 
Aunt Betsey would be glad to have you. 

“What, and leave Riette while she is in such 
trouble? Is it likely?” 

I knew that it was very unlikely, but I urged the 
advisability of it with all the eloquence of which I 
was capable. Nesta listened patiently, but finally 
silenced me with: 

“It would be disloyal, and you know it, Dick. 
Riette has been the best friend I ever made for myself, 
and nothing would induce me to desert her. I will 
tell you something, if you promise not to repeat it 
to Morry. Then you will see that it is impossible 
for me to do as you suggest.” . 

I gave the required promise. After a little hesi¬ 
tation, Nesta said in a low voice: 

“I am not easy about Adrian. I’m not sure that 
he means to come back.” 

I said nothing. , 

“You know the terms they were on, don t you.' 

“They always seemed fond of each other. 

“Yes. But before Adrian went away there was a 
quarrel. I don’t know what it was about—Riette 
never said anything—but I am pretty sure Adrian 
blamed her for something, and that when he went 
away he meant to stay away. She has put the best 
face she could on it, but I don’t believe she really 
expected to get any answer to those telegrams we 

sent to Manaos.” , , 

I thought it was much more likely Sir Parian had 
left his partner to put the insurance swindle through 
alone, meaning to come back if she succeeded; but 


222 


MORRY 


I kept this to myself. Nesta’s eyes were brimmed 
with tears. 

“She loved him more than he loved her, Dick. She 
loves him now, and wants him back. So I can’t leave 
her. But really you needn’t be afraid of my being 
drawn into her business difficulties. She has always 
kept her affairs to herself. She never asked me to 
ring you up. It was my own suggestion. I told her 
you had offered, when you first heard about the 
burglary, to help us if we needed help, and pressed 
her to allow me to ask you to come round. She was 
not very willing.” 

I had to be content. Whether Nesta any longer 
believed in the story of the Chateau heritage, and 
the burglary, I could not be sure; I was inclined 
to think that she did not really believe, and if so, 
the danger of her being entangled in Lady V’s dis¬ 
honesties was the less. What disquieted me more 
than the risk she ran was the bitter tone in which she 
referred to Morry; if he had succeeded in his attempt 
to open her eyes, it was at the cost of her liking for 
him. 

A week later, Morry telephoned and asked if I 
could come down to the House that evening and walk 
home with him. He explained that he wished to talk 
to me, and that was the only opportunity he could 
make. 

I went at nine. He procured me admission to the 
Speaker’s Gallery, and for a couple of hours I lis¬ 
tened to the creak-creak of the legislative machine. 
When the House rose, I went to the outer lobby and 
waited. Just as Morry was about to join me an 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 223 


M.P. whom I knew by sight buttonholed him. They 
went into the corridor that leads to the House of 
Lords, which was empty, and for some ten minutes 
held conversation. 

As we emerged from Palace Yard, Morry asked 
whether I had succeeded in persuading Nesta to 
leave Berkeley Square. 

I told him of the pledge she had given. “Cockles 
is the most loyal soul alive. She will stand by Lady 
V to the last.” 

We walked the entire length of Great George Street 
in silence, and had entered St. James’s Park when 
Morry said: 

“Lady Vochlear may be arrested any day.” 

I was startled. I had told Nesta that Lady V was 
liable to criminal proceedings, believing it unlikely 
that there would be any. I asked: 

“Is Feston going to prosecute?” 

“No. The position is that Lady Vochlear has been 
borrowing money for years past on the strength of her 
story. Repayment has been deferred on the plea of 
the continued existence of the imaginary relative— 
what was the name Lady Vochlear invented for her? 

“Aunt Seraphine.” 

“Yes. She kept Aunt Seraphine alive as long as 
she could, staving off her creditors by pretending that 
it was only a question of a year or so, or a month or 
so, or a week or so. Aunt Seraphine had been very 
infirm, I may tell you, for a long time, and had 
alarming crises of health which recurrently kindled 
in the breasts of the creditors the belief that she was 
about to pop off.” 


224 


MORRY 


“Do you know how many creditors there are?” 

“I know of five. There are almost certainly more, 
perhaps many more.” 

“Go on.” 

“Eventually, Lady Vochlear had to face the fact 
that she could not keep Aunt Seraphine alive for ever. 
What was to be done when she had to be killed 
off? Hence the insurance scheme. I may tell you 
that the version of the story we heard was invented 
for Feston’s benefit. According to the classic version, 
on the strength of which the borrowing was done, the 
imaginary hoard amounted to a million and three- 
quarters, and Lady Vochlear and her sister were 
the sole heirs. As it was obviously impossible to 
obtain an insurance policy for such an immense 
sum, the value of the hoard had to be reduced; I 
imagine that it was fixed at a quarter of a million 
because that was the maximum for which Lady Voch¬ 
lear could insure, or could raise the necessary pre¬ 
mium. The increase in the number of heirs was no 
doubt for the purpose of working on Feston’s sym¬ 
pathies, if it came to a pinch, by performing antics 
as a heart-wrung trustee. She did that rather well, 
I thought.” 

I thought so, too. 

“After the insurance policy had been obtained, 
it was still advisable to defer the sham burglary as 
long as possible so as to lull suspicion. Lady Voch¬ 
lear managed to carry on for nearly a year, but she 
was driven to an almost incredible degree of audacity 
in her lying to do it, and the creditors became 
suspicious. They began to talk about it, and eventu- 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 225 


ally two of them came into touch with one another. 

The burglary destroyed whatever remnant of faith 
they had, and when Lady Vochlear protested that 
the securities were insured and the money would be 
forthcoming, they insisted on seeing the policy and 
making their own inquiries. That brought them into 
contact with Feston. He sent them to Haverford, and 
Haverford told them that Lady Vochlear, when chal¬ 
lenged by me, had refused to produce any evidence 
that her story was true, although I had arranged my 
test in such a manner that it would have been worth 
two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to her to 
produce even one scrap of evidence. 

“That burst the bubble. Haverford presented an 
ultimatum to Lady Vochlear, and as she could not 
comply with it, he has communicated the facts to 
the Public Prosecutor. I told him that was the proper 
course.” 

I reflected. After a while Morry said in a humor¬ 
ous way: 

“You saw that fellow who spoke to me just as I 

found you?” , „ 

“Balstrom? He sits for High Tors, doesn t he. 

“Yes. He’s the fifth creditor, Dick. He only came 
on the scene to-night. He had heard rumours in the 
city: my name was mentioned. He wanted to know 
whether there was any way in which he could keep 
out of it—plead privilege as a member of Parliament, 
or some such nonsense. I told him he must do his 
duty as a citizen, if he were called upon.” 

I asked whether it would be proper for me to warn 
Nesta. 


226 


MORRY 


“I see no reason why you should not. I have told 
you nothing confidential, except about Balstrom. You 
must not, of course, suggest that Lady Vochlear should 
seek to evade justice. The proper suggestion to make 
is, I think, that she should place herself in the hands 
of legal advisers. They would probably communi¬ 
cate with the authorities, and if there is any expla¬ 
nation of her conduct inconsistent with the theory of 
deliberate fraud, it would be for them to offer it.” 

When I called in Berkeley Square the next morning, 
the butler informed me that her ladyship and Mrs. 
Mack had departed a couple of hours before for the 
country. I asked for their address He replied that 
her ladyship had not given an address, as she did not 
wish to be troubled with letters. 

Two days later, Lady V was arrested in the Isle 
of Wight, where she and Nesta were staying in private 
rooms. 

Those who succeeded in securing admission to the 
court deemed themselves highly privileged, and be¬ 
haved as privileged persons are apt to do. The judge, 
even more famous for his wit than for his culture 
and learning, could not resist the temptation afforded 
by the circumstances. A procession of witnesses en¬ 
tered the box: there was a banker, a financier, a com¬ 
mercial magnate, a stockbroker, an owner of famous 
race horses—all well known socially. One after an¬ 
other told almost exactly the same tale. Lady V 
had begun by a confidential communication: she was 
trustee for her family, and wished for advice as to an 
investment for “part of the surplus income”; a sum in 
five figures was usually mentioned. The purchase 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 227 


recommended was made either through the destined 
victim himself or in such a way that he knew it had 
been made, so as to fix in his mind the belief that a 
trust fund of considerable size existed. (The invest¬ 
ment was invariably sold or hypothecated soon after.) 
The history of the imaginary trust was next revealed, 
under circumstances similar to those sketched by 
Morry in the case of Feston, and the dupe was shown 
the interior of the strong-room. The ground thus 
prepared. Lady Y would confess laughingly to per¬ 
sonal embarrassment due to extravagance, remarking 
that she could not pledge her future share of the 
bonds because of the peculiar nature of the trust. 
After that she did not need to ask for a loan in the 
majority of cases; it was proffered, and accepted 
with seeming reluctance, to be repaid with interest 
“when Aunt Seraphine died.” As counsel for the 
prosecution, in his opening speech, had made it clear 
that Aunt Seraphine never existed, the mention of 
her name subsequently evoked a titter. No doubt, 
it was difficult to retain one’s gravity. 

The famous proofs, which had imposed on every 
one of these highly-capable men, were another source 
of amusement. They had all been fabricated in 
simple ways. For instance, the police had found in 
Lady V’s desk several sets of rubber types such as 
can be purchased anywhere for a few shillings. The 
cheques which seemed to prove that Lady V had 
annually paid Aunt Seraphine sums running into 
thousands of pounds, had simply been written out, 
stamped with the names of banks, endorsed with 
imitations of bank-managers’ signatures, and creased 


228 


MORRY 


and soiled a little. They looked exactly as though 
they had been passed through the banks, paid, and 
returned to Lady V according to the custom of Lon¬ 
don bankers; whereas in fact they had never been 
out of her hands. 

There was also much laughter over the evidence of 
the French maid, who had turned traitor. She related 
how she had tied Lady V up in the night—“a little 
tight, because she wished there should be marks, but 
not very tight, because she would not be hurt”—and 
was reproached in the morning because “the knots 
were in such places as she could not sleep con¬ 
formably.” 

“What was the last word?” inquired the judge. 

“I think the witness meant ‘comfortably,’ ” sug¬ 
gested counsel. 

The witness agreed. “She said I had so placed the 
knots that she could not lie anyway.” 

The judge raised his eyebrows and murmured: 
“Really?” The court was convulsed. 

Had I been a disinterested member of the audience, 
I daresay I should have laughed with the rest. But 
Lady V’s final attempt at trickery had brought about 
what was to me a tragedy. Nesta sat as near the 
dock as she could, heartening the prisoner from time 
to time with smiles and other surreptitious signs of 
encouragement; Morry, who held a watching brief 
for the underwriters, sat a few feet away, and she 
would not recognise him. They came out of court 
side by side on one occasion, and Nesta never turned 
her head. 

It was a tragedy because O’Donovan Mack had 


STORY OF CHATEAU HERITAGE 229 


obtained a decree of divorce from an American court, 
and had married another woman. The English courts 
do not recognise such decrees, but the remarriage was 
sufficient to enable Nesta to obtain her freedom; 
and I believed that if it had not been for this wretched 
new misunderstanding, she and Morry would have 
come together. I felt sure that the old one had been 
cleared up, that Nesta had long ago forgiven Morry 
for his temporary aberration over Isola. The new 
misunderstanding was all on one side: I intended, 
when the trial was over, to try and make Nesta see 
that Morry had only done his duty, and that it ought 
to count in his favour if he had not flinched from the 
unpleasant task of trying to save her from the danger 
in which she had stood; but I had little hope of 
success. This gave a sombre complexion to my 
thoughts. , 

In the course of the trial it came out that Lady 
V had been on the stage in Paris when Sir Adrian 
first met her, and that her fiction—she was the daugh¬ 
ter of parents in a modest way of life had been 
invented to give herself importance; it was originally 
a mere publicity stunt. What is the difference be¬ 
tween that kind of thing and such flights of fancy as 
writers of imaginative works indulge themselves in 
and profit by? Little more, it seemed to me, than 
the method of promulgation. As Lady V was led 
from the dock after sentence had been pronounced, 
I recalled the story of the divine who watched a 
highwayman pass on the way to Tyburn, and said to 
myself: “There, but for the grace of God, goes 
Richard Youatt.” 


230 


MORRY 


Since Lady V’s arrest, Nesta bad been staying with 
Mrs. Mountjoy. After the trial she went to Mark- 
hamsted. I waited for a week to give her time to 
recover her mental balance, and then went down. I 
took her for a walk in the park, and pleaded for 
Morry. I think I may say without being vain that 
if I could have pleaded as well in court, I should 
have been nearly as great an advocate as he. 

Nesta was inexorable. “I will never have anything 
more to do with Morry. Don’t ask me to meet him. 
I shall walk off if you do.” 

My radiant spun-glass dream for these two was 
shattered again. 


CHAPTER XI 


Transplanted 

After several months rest at Markhamsted, Nesta 
went as a companion to her friend Patricia Riordan, 
the daughter of Sir Dominic Scaferlati. She did not 
need to do so; Aunt Betsey would have been glad to 
have her stay on indefinitely. But there was nothing 
for Nesta to do at Markhamsted; Aunt Betsey did 
not need her, whereas Mrs. Riordan was a widow, 
her health was not good, and she had a daughter of 
fifteen who gave her some anxiety. They lived with 
Sir Dominic, who had been many years a widower, 
at his beautiful house, Borlington Towers, near Red- 
minster. 

There was nothing foreign about Sir Dominic 
except his name. His grandfather was an Italian 
savant who settled in England; his father an engineer 
of genius who founded the great works near Bir¬ 
mingham. Sir Dominic had built up the business 
and added works at Milan. He had taken in two 
of his nephews, Leonard and Ernest Althrop, as part¬ 
ners, the actual management being by this time in 
their hands; Sir Dominic devoted himself chiefly to 
his hobby, the correcting of erroneous ascriptions of 
Italian pictures of the sixteenth century. This usually 
took the form of pointing out that the work was by 
an inferior hand to that claimed for it, which did 
not tend to make him popular with picture dealers. 
He was also, in the country of his ancestors, a favour¬ 
ite target for the tirade of Socialists. 


232 


MORRY 


I spent a week-end at the Towers soon after Nesta 
joined the family, and found them pleasant people. 
Sir Dominic was a courtly old gentleman, still active 
despite his seventy-odd years and slight physique; he 
was small and slight, and had been lame from child¬ 
hood, always using a stick. I met Leonard Althrop, 
who managed the English business, a fine type of 
the employer-class with a sense of what was due to 
others less fortunately placed. There was a young 
Scaferlati in the business, a grand-nephew of Sir 
Dominic’s; but he was not at the Towers on that 
occasion. 

Nesta’s special charge, Elena Riordan, interested 
me as a psychological study. Sir Dominic’s mother 
had been Irish, and his wife an Irish woman; the 
Riordans are an old Connaught family; Elena was 
therefore pure Italian-Irish. It is not a common 
strain, and this particular embodiment of it seemed 
at first an attractive young person, although she 
gave no promise of good looks. We made friends 
on the Saturday morning, and after luncheon she 
took me round to the stables to see her hunter. She 
was carrying a Persian kitten in her arms, and while 
we were looking at the mare the kitten jumped down. 
Presently there were loud miaows from the yard. 
Elena rushed out, I following. A fox-terrier was 
worrying the kitten. 

I never saw a personal transformation more start¬ 
ling. Elena’s face was dark red as she kicked wildly 
at the dog, and when I had collared and cuffed him, 
and rescued the kitten—not at all hurt—her‘lips 
worked soundlessly and her eyes were wicked. She 


TRANSPLANTED 


233 


insisted on going straight to Sir Dominic, and I could 
not prevent her. It took us ten minutes to find him 
in the gardens, but even then Elena could not speak 
for passion. When words came, they came in a 
flood—a flood of falsehoods. The head groom had 
deliberately set his dog on Mirza, and had stood there 
laughing while she rescued her pet. Mirza was badly 
bitten. 

Sir Dominic looked interrogatively at me. I shook 
my head. 

He interrupted Elena, telling her to give him the 
kitten. She did so, unwillingly. He examined Mirza, 
put her on the ground, and she promptly began to 
frisk. He reproved his granddaughter sternly; she 
did not dare to answer him back—there was a good 
deal of the imperious in Sir Dominic in spite of his 
courtliness and evident kindliness—but again her lips 
moved in that soundless anger that made me shiver, 
and for the rest of my stay she sulked, opening her 
mouth only when Sir Dominic was out of hearing to 
describe what she would do to the head groom if she 
had the power. Instant dismissal was the least of 
the penalties he would have had to bear. Malignancy 
is not an easy trait to eradicate, and I did not envy 
Nesta her task. 

She seemed happy enough, however, whenever I 
saw her subsequently, which was usually when she 
brought Elena to town for shopping purposes. Mrs. 
Riordan’s failing health compelled her to leave 
things more and more to Nesta as time went on, and 
in the satisfaction of her instinct for filling a useful 
sphere she was content. 


CHAPTER XII 


A Law Officer of the Crown 

Meantime the seal had been set on Morry’s 
achievements. He had been made Solicitor-General. 

The Attorney-General and Solicitor-General are 
barristers appointed by the Prime Minister to serve 
the Government in regard to legal matters: hence 
they are usually the two most eminent members of 
the bar belonging to the party in power. Morry’s 
description of his functions and those of his coadjutor, 
Sir Edward Rhys-Morgan, was: “I am the legal maid- 
of-all-work and Ned is the tweenie.” Incidentally, 
they are always knighted, and Morry’s beam was on 
at full power when I went to dine in Regent’s Park 
a week after he was appointed. He had been to 
the palace the previous day to receive the accolade, 
and had not returned home afterwards until the small 
hours, there being a late sitting of the House. He 
had slept till nearly nine that morning, and conse¬ 
quently had breakfasted alone. Samuels Sir-Mauriced 
him to such an extent that he protested. He said that 
he was reading a letter at the time, and reproduced 
his absent-minded way of pausing between the words 
of a sentence. 

“Er—Samuels.” 

“Yes, Sir Maurice?” 

“Just see—that I am not served—with quite so 
much sirmaurice in future—will you?” 

“Very good, sir.” 

Morry reflected that he might be robbing Samuels 
234 


A LAW OFFICER OF THE CROWN 235 


of a pleasure. “Later in the day, Samuels—it 
will be quite all right. But—you know —at break¬ 
fast -” 

On the Saturday following there was a biographical 
article on the new Solicitor-General in one of the 
weeklies. The writer, who was intimately acquainted 
with him, informed the world that one of his char¬ 
acteristics was an entire lack of the sense of humour. 


“I told Ned yesterday he was a lazy swine,” said 
Morry angrily. “Either he must pull his share of the 
load, or get out of double harness.” 

There had been a horrible scandal. Rhys-Morgan, 
a Welsh Nonconformist of the straitest sect and the 
most scrupulously honourable of men, had been 
accused by the opposition newspapers of malver¬ 
sation and stealing ducks. There was nothing in 
it, really; the Fleet-Streeters who worked it for all it 
was worth no doubt laughed in their sleeves. But 
Rhys-Morgan had taken it seriously, and for months 
he had done no work at all. Now, the thick end of 
the law work of the British Government is a job for 
two able-bodied men working ten to twelve hours a 
day at top pressure. Morry had done it alone. 

His skin had gone grey. His eyes were pit-holes 
of black fire. His hands shook so badly that he could 
hardly turn over the pages of a brief. He forgot what 
he was talking about in the middle of his sentences. 
His temper was ragged to a frazzle. However, he 
had rebelled at last, and I thought there was just a 
chance of saving him alive. 



236 


MORRY 


A few weeks later Rhys-Morgan was appointed 
Lord Chief Justice of England, and I went to the 
ceremony of administering the oath. 

Scarlet and ermine and gold— 

“. . .to deal justice without fear or favour or 
respect of persons or parties. ...” 

From the middle of the lowest row of desks rose 
a sturdy figure that I knew well. 

“I move that these proceedings be recorded.” 

The Lord Chief Justice inclined his head in stately 
fashion. “Be it so, Mr. Attorney.” 

Morry made a congratulatory speech, but I did not 
listen to His Majesty’s Attorney-General. I was 
thinking of other things. What things? “I told Ned 
he was a lazy swine,” for one. Also a certain two- 
thousand-guinea fee earned by a King’s Counsel of 
only a few years standing. Of a young man with 
patched boots, who could not pay a debt of one-and- 
twopence for cigarettes, and a Jewy youth with a trace 
of Cockney accent, keen on his tasks at school. Of 
a plump baby—what the devil has it to do with you 
what my thoughts were? 

A new wind blew in the political heaven, and cer¬ 
tain members of the cabinet did not see eye to eye 
with their colleagues as to an addition to the party 
programme. Morry was one of the minority. The 
possibility of a split in the Government was much 
discussed. 

“What will Solly Squaretoes do—resign?” asked 
one of a group of men in the smoke-room at my 
political club. I was writing letters close by. 


A LAW OFFICER OF THE CROWN 237 


“Abramson? Not he.” 

“He’s only a placeman,” said a third, and the 
others agreed. 

There was a certain amount of justification for 
the belief that Morry would not leave the Govern¬ 
ment. The truth was, he had sailed with the tide 
since entering Parliament because there had never 
been any reason why he should do otherwise. Prefer¬ 
ment had come to him as a result of his eminence at 
the bar; there had been no question of selling his 
soul for office, as my friends assumed there must have 
been. But he was so fertile in expedients for getting 
round difficulties that he had given those who did not 
know him well the idea that he must be supple in 
character. 

I knew this impression to be wrong. Morry had 
talked to me frankly about his political difficulties at 
times, and had shown himself incapable of compro¬ 
mise in a matter of principle, just as he was in his 
profession and in private life. But I thought it 
probable that his ingenuity would find a way out of 
the present difficulty which would enable him to 
remain where he was, or to accept some other office 
if there were a shuffle of the higher posts. 

On the following Wednesday I was lunching at the 
Kean Club, and Morry came up to my table. 

“Are you doing anything special this afternoon, 
Dick?” I said I wasn’t. 

“Then let us go to the Oval.” 

“Aren’t you working?” „ 

“My dear fellow, I have joined the unemployed. 


CHAPTER XIII 


The Law of England 

My bearings had been heated over a public ques¬ 
tion—a disease which attacks me spasmodically. This 
time it was the question of bureaucracy. I like 
bureaucrats personally, but I do not like their official 
ways. 

Sauntering up Regent Street one fine August morn¬ 
ing I saw Bill Nixon coming out of a shop. I respect 
Bill. In his younger days he went right through the 
South African War, and he is one of those honest, 
simple-minded people who are really interested in 
their businesses. Also, he has a bank-holiday wit that 
likes me well. 

I noticed that he was looking worried. 

“What’s the matter with you? Has a wagon-load 
of monkeys fallen down your neck?” 

“No. A ton of bricks has fallen on my head, that’s 
all. Thank you.” 

“As how?”—We walked along together. 

“Well, it’s like this. I booked a lot of orders for 
crackers this year, and amongst them some biggish 
lots of sevens and eights. The sevens have squeakers 
in them. ...” 

Bill always talks to me as if I were familiar with 
the details of his business. 

I took his arm affectionately. “Bill,” I said, “what 
is a squeaker?” 

“A thing you make a noise with. Don’t you know? 

238 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


239 


Haven’t you ever put on a fancy hat and squeaked?” 

“No. Why should I? Why should any sober man 
do such a thing?” 

“You probably wouldn’t be sober when you did 
i t — at least, not now. But I sh’d’ve thought you’d 
been to a Christmas party once in your life.” 

“Oh! By a fancy hat you mean a paper cap such 
as one finds in a cracker, and by a squeaker, a thing 
you put in your mouth and blow?” 

“Of course.” 

“Well, proceed. Crackers were ordered from you 
which were to contain squeakers. What’s gone 

wrong: , 

“The squeakers have come, but the Customs won t 
let me have them unless I get a licence.” 

“Why, what have you been up to? What is in 
them—gelignite, or aconite, or improper pictures? 

“There’s nothin’ in ’em,” responded Bill sourly. 
“How could there be? If there was, they wouldn’t 
squeak ” 

(Note that. There is nothing in a squeaker. If 
there was, you could not make a noise with it.) „ 

“Then why won’t the Customs let you have them?” 

“I’m tellin’ you. I ast ’em, how could I get a 
licence. They told me to go to a place in Whitehall. 
I went, and told one of the chaps there that I wanted 
a licence to import squeakers. He gave me a form 
to fill up. I looked at it, and found it was a form of 
application for a licence to import musical instr- 
ments.” 

I remonstrated. “Bill! You don’t need any licence 
to import musical instruments.” 


240 


MORRY 


“Of course you do. I said, ‘Hold on, this won’t 
do. You haven’t given me the right form. Squeakers 
are not musical instr’ments.’ ” 

I laughed. 

“The chap said it was the only form of that kind 
they had. The other forms were for things like 
you said—explosives and poisons, which evidently 
wouldn’t do. He said squeakers must be musical 
instr’ments. I said they were not, and it was no use 
askin’ me to fill up a form and sign it when it con¬ 
tained a lie. There was a declaration printed at the 
bottom, where you had to sign, and it said you certi¬ 
fied that everythin’ you signed for was true. Well, I 
couldn’t do that, could I? They might have had me 
up next for makin’ a false declaration.” 

“Continue.” 

“I went back to the Customs. They said they had 
ast about it before they wrote me I must have a 
licence, and a chap in Whitehall, not the one I’d seen, 
told them squeakers were musical instr’ments. I said 
that was silly. Don’t you think I was right?” 

“Quite right. In my experience, squeakers are by 
no means musical instruments.” 

Bill took me seriously. “Just so. I went to see 
the bloke. He was a superior sort of devil—one of 
those that drawls, like you do, only more so.” 

^Thank you very much.” 

“Don’t mention it. He made a song of what was 
and what wasn’t a musical instr’ment—several verses. 
He said I might appeal to the advisory committee if 
I wasn’t satisfied. If I would write-” 

“I know that game. I could play it in my sleep. 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 241 

You needn’t tell me about that. Tell me what hap¬ 
pened.” 

“Well, he practically said it would be all right if 
I would fill up the form; I sh’d get the licence in^a 
few days. Then I discovered another thing. I sh’d 
have to pay for my licence.” 

“What!” 

“Yes. And, you see, we don’t make much on 
crackers—they’re a cut line—it meant that instead of 
makin’ a profit on the number sevens, I sh d make 
a loss. So I’ve just bin round seein’ the buyers, to 
ask if they’d help me a bit, because the thing’s new, 
and I couldn’t know, when I took the orders, that 
the Government were goin’ to do this. But they won t. 
They say it’s my lookout.” 

I said: “This is too much.” 

“I sh’d think it was—a jolly sight too much. Why, 
do you know what I’ve got to pay on these 
squeakers?” 

“I meant that your story was too much tor me. it 
isn’t a bad one—as a flight of fancy. It would make 
rather a good yarn: ‘When England Goes Crazy. 

“Don’t you believe me?” demanded Bill, stopping 
suddenly. 

“I do not, old son.” 

Bill walked on. “It’s a funny thing, but nobody 
seems to know anythin’ about this except the people in 
the trade. I must confess I was a bit staggered my¬ 
self at first. But I happen to have a pal m the 
musical instr’ment business, and I went to him, to 
find out whether he knew anythin’ about it. He gave 
me a copy of the law.” 


242 


MORRY 


“The law! What law?” 

“The law about havin’ to get a licence to import 
musical instr’ments. I’ve got it at the office.” 

“Bill! What are you talking of? 6 Air things 
what they seem, or is visions about?’ Now, listen to 
me. There is no such law. There never has been. 
I am a lawyer-” 

“Are you?” Bill looked at me with increased 
respect. “I thought you were in the diplomatic 
service before you went in for bein’ an author.” 

“I was called at an early stage of my career.” 

Bill suddenly became frivolous. “Yes, most of 
us were. What were you called in your early days 
—little Dicky-wicky? or was it Tweety-tweet?” 

“I meant that I was called to the bar.” 

“Well, I’ll call you to the bar again now, if that 
was so long ago. It must be about time you had 
another drink.” 

The conversation on high stools ended in Bill say¬ 
ing: “Come round to the office,” and in my going 
there. He rummaged in his desk and produced a 
piece of paper. 

“Now, then. You say it isn’t the law. Then tell 
me what sort of a bally law that is.” 

I did not know. There it was: 

“WE, GEORGE, of the United Kingdom of Great 
Britain and Ireland, King . . . the Lords of the 
Council ... in virtue of the powers vested in 
us under section twenty-nine of the Customs Act, 
1873, do hereby order that the importation of the 
goods specified in the schedule hereto attached 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


243 


shall be permitted only under licence. ...” 

In the schedule was “Musical Instruments.” 

It was a proclamation by the Privy Council in the 
King’s name—technically, an Order in Council. 

My first impulse was to admit that I had been 
wrong. But I had committed myself to a positive 
statement that this could not be law, and I suppose 
my vanity fastened on the fact that an Act was cited 
as an excuse to say: 

“I must look into this.” 

“What for?” 

I explained that the only legal value such a procla¬ 
mation has is derived, not from the King and the 
Lords of the Council, but from the Act of Parliament 
which authorises them to make it. “If it is not author¬ 
ised, it has no force.” 

“What do you mean by ‘having no force’?” 

“It wouldn’t amount to anything. Such things have 
happened.” 

“Well, but what do people do then—people^ like 
me? It wouldn’t be a bit of good me tellin’ the 
Customs people or that chap in Whitehall it was so— 
I think he’s at the bottom of it, you know. They 
wouldn’t believe me.” 

“Of course they wouldn’t. But you would apply 
to a judge first, and if he gave you an order, you 
could go down to the Customs and say: ‘Hand 

over.’ ” 11111 

Bill’s eyes sparkled. “I say, that would be a lark. 

Would they do it—give me my parcel? 

“How could they refuse?” 


244 


MORRY 


“And you think there’s a chance that this law isn’t 
right?” 

I felt ashamed of myself, but I had gone too far to 
draw back. “There is always a chance.” 

“Can you find out whether it is or not?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then do, and let me know.” 

I looked up the Customs Act of 1873. Yes, there 
it was. 

“29. His Majesty may by Order in Council pro¬ 
hibit the importation of opium , laudanum , or any 
other goods.” 

It was perfectly clear. “Or any other goods.” 
Squeakers, for instance. 

I went down into Buckinghamshire for the week¬ 
end. Morry, who had returned to private practice at 
the bar, was slacking, it being the vacation. 

On the Sunday morning we went for a walk. I 
said: 

“Morry, I have stumbled across a curious point 
of law. Did you know that the importation of goods 
could be limited by Order in Council?” 

Morry was uninterested, as usual. He answered 
absently: 

“Yes, I think I did, Dick—as to some things.” 

“Arms and ammunition, explosives, opiates?” 

Morry said: “Er—I think that is right.” 

“Did you know that the importation of any kind 
of goods could be prohibited in the same way?” 

“No, I cannot say that I did.” 

“Well, it can. That is the point I have stumbled 
on. I’ll tell you how.” 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 245 

I warmed up over the story. “This really is a 
scandal, Morry. Can’t you go for the Government 
about it when Parliament meets?” 

“I don’t see why you should resent the limitation 
of imports,” replied Morry. “I seem to remember 
having heard you argue the case for Tariff Reform. 

“Yes, but this is quite a different thing. See how 
the system works. The order says nothing about toys. 
It only mentions musical instruments, with which 
Nixon is not concerned at all. Then, some bureau¬ 
crat or other decides that his silly little squeakers^ are 
musical instruments, and the trap closes on him. 

“That does seem rather a high-handed way of doing 
things,” said Morry. “But you know, Dick-” 

He paused. 

“What’s the matter?” . 

“Are you sure you have it right? What is the 
authority for making such orders?” 

I told him again. 

He looked puzzled. “The section explicitly confers 
the power to prohibit the importation of any kind oi 
goods?” ^ 

“Certainly. It says so.” 

“Can you remember the exact words. 

“ ‘His Majesty may by Order in Council prohibit 
the importation of opium, laudanum, or any other 
goods.’ ” 

“Sui generis said Morry. 

I knew that the words meant of that kind, and 
it flashed across my mind that in the text-books there 
is at least one reference to them. But I could not 
remember what it was. 


246 


MORRY 


“Explain.” 

“You must read the words into the section. 
‘Opium, laudanum, or any other goods of that kind,’ 
is what it means.” 

“But-” 

“The doctrine of sui generis” pursued Morry, “is 
that wherever particular words precede general words 
in a definition, the general words must be read in the 
light of the particular words. It is a matter of com¬ 
mon sense. If it were not so, what would be the 
object of inserting the particular words? Take this 
instance. If Parliament had intended to confer on 
the Crown the power to prohibit the importation of 
any kind of goods whatsoever, the section would have 
read, ‘His Majesty may by Order in Council prohibit 
the importation of any kind of goods.’ Why then 
were opium and laudanum mentioned—just two 
articles out of the great number which regularly come 
into the country? To show what kind of goods is 
intended.” 

“Then the proclamation is bad?” 

“I think so.” 

“What’s the proper procedure?” 

“Does your friend think of fighting it?” 

“He might wish to.” 

“I do not think you should encourage him to go on 
until you have made quite sure of the position. Did 
you bring the papers with you?” 

“No. I didn’t think there was anything in it from 
a legal point of view. I only told you because I 
thought it might be of use to you from a political 
point of view.” 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


247 


Morry’s position was peculiar. He was on the 
Government side, but it was notorious that he did not 
approve of the principal item of their policy. 
Hitherto he had refrained from any active opposition 
to their plans, but I thought he must come into the 
open sooner or later. 

“Ah.” And from the quality of his silence on the 
way home I knew that he was thinking about it. As 
we came in view of the house he said: 

“Come down again next week, Dick, and bring those 
papers with you. You do me good. You know, 
old fellow ...” 

He said flattering things. 

When I returned to town, I went to see Bill. 

“I think that proclamation is bad.” 

“Do you be-Jove?” There was a fighting look in 
Bill’s eye. “Good lad. Now I’ll tell you somethin’. 
I went to that blighter in Whitehall again. I said, 
if I took out my licence now, and paid the money, 
would they give it me back if the committee decided 
that squeakers were not musical instr’ments? I ex¬ 
plained to him why I proposed this—because I c dn t 
wait. I must have my parcel. I must deliver the 
crackers. Christmas won’t put itself off while these 
chaps make up their minds. I told him all about 
it, frankly. Well, he w’dn’t. He said it wasn’t pos¬ 
sible. He said a licence-fee was a somethin’ or other 

—what is it?” „ 

“A theft, I suggest, under the circumstances. 

“You mayn’t be far wrong there. I’ll tell you for 
why. When I persisted, and said it seemed a rotten 
way of doin’ things, almost dishonest, if squeakers 


248 


MORRY 


really are not musical instr’ments accordin’ to this 
law, he got lofty, and said: ‘Well, Mr. Nixon, you 
have no one but yourself to blame. If you prefer 
to order your supplies from abroad, instead of pro¬ 
curin’ them in the United Kingdom, you must take 
your chance.’ ” 

I sat tight. 

“Then I saw what he was. He was a Tariff 
Reformer.” Bill’s tone implied that condemnation 
could no farther go. 

I still sat tight. 

“Don’t you think he was?” 

“Probably. But, Bill, tell me something—as a 
matter of curiosity—couldn’t you have got those 
squeakers in the United Kingdom?” 

Bill snorted. “Where from? They aren’t made 
here. Who’s goin’ to make ’em? My dear chap, 
they would cost more than the crackers are worth.” 

“Couldn’t you put up the price of the crackers?” 

“Put up the price of the crackers!” echoed Bill 
derisively. “Yes, I could put it up, but who’d pay 
it? Nobody. Nobody would buy crackers with 
squeakers in them at a price like that, and conse¬ 
quently the people over in Bohemia would starve, 
and the people in Wandsworth would have no number 
sevens to make. If that’s what you want, say so.” 

It was not what I wanted. I wanted the letter from 
the Customs refusing him his goods. I said so. 

Bill yelled “Miss Simpkins!” with a suddenness 
that made me jump. A child presently entered. 

“Do you know where that yellow form is we got 
from the Customs about the squeakers from Maritz?” 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


249 


“I think Bert had it, Mr. Nixon.” 

“Just see.” 

Miss Simpkins went out, and I overheard a dis¬ 
cussion going on between her and some other girls 
in the outer office as to where Bert was likely to have 
put the yellow form. Ultimately, it was brought in. 

Below the printed heading with the royal arms, 
there were some cabalistic characters and figures, and 


then this: 

“The importation of these goods being prohibited, 
except under licence, by Order in Council, please 
produce your licence to import.” 

It was signed “H. Dean.” 

Armed with books and papers, I arrived in Buck¬ 
inghamshire on the Thursday afternoon. David and 
Mariel had come home, and the house was filled with 
young people. There were tennis and croquet tourna¬ 
ments in full swing, dancing o’ nights, and a jam¬ 
boree generally. Morry was thoroughly enjoying it. 
It was not until after supper on Sunday evening that 


he said: 

“Let me have a look at those papers, Dick. I saw 
that you had them with you.” 

I brought them, and presented the proclamation 

first. , 

Morry read it, and put it aside. I gave him the 


Act. 

He read the relevant part of that, and the same 
with regard to the preceding Acts. Then I showed 
him the precedents; finding them had cost me no 

small toil. . 

He glanced over them. “Nothing in that. Noth- 


250 


MORRY 


ing much in that.” “Nothing at all.” “Nothing.” “A 
little there.” “Nothing.” 

I felt slightly hurt. I showed him the yellow form 
which the Customs had sent Bill Nixon because it 
was the only “document” I had. I knew that it was 
of no importance. Morry read it, and became 
pensive. 

After five minutes or so he asked: “Your friend 
intends to fight this?” 

“I think so.” 

Another silence. 

I suggested that the proper procedure was, to have 
a solicitor write, on the client’s behalf, claiming that 
the proclamation was bad in law, and that the goods 
should be released. Then, if the goods were not 
released, to apply to a judge for an order. 

Morry replied: “I do not think your procedure is 
right. This is your man.” He laid his hand on the 
yellow form. 

“Dean?” 

“Yes, Dean. He is the fellow who says to your 
friend—what is his name? Nixon—Dean is the fel¬ 
low who says to Nixon: ‘You shan’t have your goods 
unless you produce an import licence.’ The ques¬ 
tion is, why not? That is the issue to place before 
the court.” 

“But he says why not—because of the Order in 
Council.” 

“Yes, in the letter. Let him say it in court. You 
rejoin: ‘But the order is without force,’ and proceed 
to show that is so.” 

He still had his hand on the yellow form. I have 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 251 

often thought of it since—that strong, pudgy hand, 
laid flatwise over the letter. It was as though he had 
Mr. Dean—and, behind him, the British Government 
—pinned fast under it. 

“Who is Nixon’s solicitor?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“He should have a good man for this. Do you 
know Jack Hemingway? He is one of your own 
sort—red-hot about public rights. Advise your friend 
to go to him. He may say that I recommended him 
to do so if he likes, but I do not wish him, or you, 
or Hemingway, to mention my name in connection 
with the matter otherwise. Tell Nixon that, wont 
you? Hemingway should brief-” 

A long pause. 

“He should brief Fiennes. Fiennes is the man lor 
this—a doggy fellow.” , 

I knew Fiennes by repute. He was a K.U, and 
something of a top-lofter. 

“What sort of fee does he get? 

“For a thing like this? Oh, perhaps seventy-five 
guineas.” 

“Not more than that?” , 

“Tell Hemingway to send him the brief; he won t 
let it pass him. By the way, he has a very good junior 
in his chambers—a young man named Marratt. A 
keen fellow. Marratt should be briefed too. He 
should have twenty-five. What about you? 

I said that I should be very glad to help Marratt it 
I could, but I would not accept a fee. 

“You should take your guinea. Now, let me see. 
I shall be in town on Wednesday. Come in. We wi 



252 


MORRY 


see whether Fiennes is there, and if he is we will 
have a chat with him. If not, remind me later to 
speak to him. In the meanwhile, your friend in¬ 
structs Hemingway, and Hemingway serves the writ 
—a writ to show cause. Then apply to the Vacation 
Judge to fix a date for the hearing.” 

“You can have your fight, my lad. That procla¬ 
mation is only good for pipelights. Dean is the man 
to go for. He has your squeakers-” 

“He hasn’t got them now.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“I’ve got them.” 

“You procured a licence?” 

“Of course. I c’dn’t wait. I told you so.” 

I was profoundly disappointed. “Then it’s off.” 

“Why? They had them three weeks. Can’t you 
go for them for that?” 

“Don’t be an ass. You can’t bring a case against 
the Government because some goods have been de¬ 
layed in Customs three weeks. The court would 
laugh at you. There must be a corpus causes .” 

“A which?” 

“Something to fight about, thickhead. A material 
object of which you can say: ‘That’s mine. Give it 
to me.’ In such a case as this, goods.” 

“Oh, you want some goods to fight over? Don’t 
tell me in Latin,” added Bill hastily. “Let’s have it 
in plain English—that’s your native language, 
although you often forget it.” 

“Yes. We want goods.” 

“Then, that’s easy. There’s another lot cornin’ 
along—they ought to be here this week. I bought 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


253 


them as a spec., but it doesn’t matter if I don’t get 
them, they’d come in for next year’s trade.” 

I shouted, “Shut up!” in the middle of the last 
sentence, but Bill took no notice whatever. 

“You are an idiot,” I told him. “Now listen to 
me. This is just a casual conversation. You say 
this second lot of squeakers will probably arrive 
this week-” 

“Yes,” interpolated Bill, and before I could stop 
him, added, “and you can play with those as long 
as you like.” 

“Will you shut up? Listen, you dolt. When they 
have arrived, presumably you will receive the yellow 
form with a note on it to the same effect as you had 
about the last lot.” 

“Sure,” agreed Bill affably. „ 

“Very well. Have you a solicitor?” 

“No, and I don’t want one.” 

“You must have one for this. I recommend you 
to go to a man named Hemingway—-—” 

“No, you don’t,” interrupted Bill in a firm tone. 
“You’ve got to do this yourself, Daddy Longlegs. I 
go to no solicitors.” 

“Then I’ll send him to you. You must instruct 
him formally.” 

“Why?” . . 

I explained that according to the etiquette ot the 
legal profession, I, as a barrister, could not receive 
any authority to act for him except through a solicitor. 
Bill gazed at me pityingly. 

“You had to pay a lot to become a lawyer, hadn t 

you?” 




254 


MORRY 


“My father had to pay a good deal of money to 
enable me to become one.” 

“And now you strike a little job like this, you 
have to get another fellow to do the work for you? 
Good Lord, can’t you even get a parcel of squeakers 
yourself? Well, well. Your father was a clergyman, 
and you’ve got swank relations—didn’t I hear you 
say once that your family came over with the Con¬ 
queror?” 

“You did not. We were here long before the Con¬ 
queror came.” 

“Then I must be lenient with you. What am I to 
say to this chap? Put it short.” 

“You must give him the yellow form, and say: ‘I 
want these goods. Take the necessary steps to get 
them for me.’ Don’t say more than that.” 

“Can’t I put it shorter? Wouldn’t—‘I want my 
squeakers: get ’em’—do?” 

“That’s the same thing.” 

“In less words, Osric. Now let’s see whether I’ve 
got it right.” He repeated “I want my squeakers— 
get ’em” three times, very rapidly, with his eyes shut, 
and opened them to inquire: “Mayn’t I say good 
mornin’ to this chap? I like to be civil.” 

“Don’t fool. I am trying to get it into your head 
that you must say you want your goods. You must 
not say that you don’t care whether you get them this 
year or next.” 

“All right, Egbert. Don’t have a rush of blood to 
the head over it. That’s dangerous at your age.” 

I rose to go. 

“How much is this goin’ to cost?” 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


255 


I had not thought about that, except as to counsel’s 
fees. I reflected. Fiennes might have to go into 
court more than once, and there would be Marratt 
as well, and Hemingway’s charges, and inciden¬ 
tals. 

“Oh, perhaps five hundred altogether at the out¬ 
side. But the Government will repay you most of it. 
You probably won’t be left more than a hundred or 
so to the bad.” 

“I don’t mind a hundred. But what’s this about the 
Government payin’ for me? Why should they do 
that?” 

I said there was no doubt we should win, and a 
verdict would carry with it an order that the Govern¬ 
ment must pay the larger part of our costs. 

“But meanwhile it’s my risk?” 

“Yes.” I added, on an impulse: “And it is just 
possible, though I don’t think it s at all likely, that 
you might be left to pay the lot.” 

“Five hundred quid.”—Bill meditated. All 
right. When any man tries to ram Tariff Reform 
down my throat, he’s goin’ to get all little Willy can 
give him. Go on—buy as much hell as you can up 
to five hundred quid’s worth. I’ll take the risk of 
havin’ to stand for it. But you must run away and 
play now, Athelstan. Mother has to work.” 

The squeakers duly arrived at the Port of London, 
and Bill received the yellow form. Hemingway 
thought the Vacation Judge might want evidence that 
the goods had been definitely refused to us, so he 
told Bill to send his van down for them. The van- 
man was to ask to see Mr. Dean, and say: I am 


256 


MORRY 


Mr. Nixon’s servant, and he sent me to get these goods. 
Will you let me have them?” 

Dean refused, of course. Hemingway took out the 
writ and served it. On the following Tuesday morn¬ 
ing Bill rang me up to say that a writ had been 
served on him. I was going to lunch with Morry, 
who was passing through town on his way to Scotland, 
so I went to Bill’s place and got the writ. It had 
been taken out nominally on behalf of the Attorney- 
General, and called upon Bill to appear, on a day to 
be appointed, to show why a quantity of musical in¬ 
struments detained at the Custom House should not be 
condemned as lawfully seized. This is the usual 
procedure when people try to bring in goods the im¬ 
portation of which is prohibited, but I could not 
understand why the Customs should want to take 
proceedings in respect of the squeakers when we had 
already done so. Morry did not explain. 

“When are you applying to the Vacation Judge— 
to-morrow?” 

“No. Next week.” The Vacation Judge only sat 
on Wednesdays. 

“You must get in first. Apply to-morrow. Tell 
the judge that the case is urgent because it involves 
the whole musical instrument trade.” 

“But who is to make the application? Marratt is 
on the Continent and Fiennes in Cornwall. Neither 
of them will be back till Monday.” 

“Do it yourself,” was the bland rejoinder. 

“Me?” I was flabbergasted at the idea. I had 
never opened my mouth before a judge on the bench 
in my life. 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


257 


“Why not? You once told me, if I remember 
your phrase rightly, that you were just as much a 
barrister as I was.” 

It was true that I had said so, many years before, 
in a boastful moment. 

I found my vanman waiting in the hall, and took 
him upstairs with me. There were three other bar¬ 
risters in court. They had been nestlings when I first 
“appeared” with Morry in the Jafes case—they were 
little more than fledglings now. But they were as 
bold as brass, and stared. I felt my courage oozing 
away from my fingers and ears. 

Mr. Fledgling No. 1 leaned across and said in a 
cheeky voice: “Are you for the defence in ‘Gershon 
versus Applethwaite’?” 

I said I was there to make an application on behalf 
of a plaintiff against the Crown. 

“Oh! Be long?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Well, be as quick as you can, will you? I want to 
go to Lords.” 

The coolness of him! 

The judge came in, bowed to us, and took his 
seat. He unfolded some papers. 

It was now or never. If I did not get up at once, 
the others would not wait for me. But I felt as though 
my feet were rooted to the floor. 

I staggered up somehow, but my tongue seemed 
to fill my mouth. In that moment I realised for the 
first time the meaning of the phrase “the majesty 
of the law.” The judge was only an old gentleman 
with his nose skinned by sunshine and salt breezes; 


258 


MORRY 


but behind him was the might of a great kingdom. 

“Yes, Mr.-?” he said kindly. 

“Youatt, my lord.” 

“Of course. I know your face quite well, Mr. 
Youatt, but could not recall the name for the moment. 
You wish to make an application?” 

The old gentleman must have seen how nervous I 
was. 

“Yes, my lord, in regard to ‘Nixon versus Dean.’ ” 

I heard Mr. Fledgling mutter to the man next 
him: “He said he was against the Crown.” I had 
said so. It was a slip. I was against the Crown 
really, but not nominally. This made me worse. 

“Nixon versus Dean,” repeated the judge. “Have 
I heard of that? Is it before the courts?” 

“No, my lord.” 

“Then tell me something about it, Mr. Youatt.” 

He leaned back comfortably, and I took courage. 
He was being very kind to me. But when he heard 
that it was a case against a Customs officer, and that 
the legality of a proclamation was involved, his face 
grew grave. I offered him my vanman, who was a 
stout fellow. 

“Did you give the other side notice of your in¬ 
tention to apply for a date to be fixed?” 

“No, my lord.” 

“Then I think you should do that. Do it, Mr. 
Youatt, and come again next week.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” I collapsed, gathered up 
my papers with trembling hands, and fled. Once in 
the fresh air, I felt better. I took the vanman to a 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


259 


pub and stood him a drink. He was disappointed 
at not having had an opportunity to relate his en¬ 
counter with Mr. Dean. I admired that vanman. He 
was a very stout fellow. But I had come to a solemn 
resolution in court, and I kept it. I went to my rooms 
in Clifford’s Inn, and burnt my wig and gown in the 
grate. Not again, for anything or anybody. 

Marratt insisted that I should come into court with 
him on the following Wednesday, however, so that I 
could prompt if necessary. We went. While we were 
waiting for the judge, a tall thin man, with finely- 
chiselled features, came in and took his seat in the 
row below Marratt—the row reserved for K.C.s. 

“Caesar’s ghost!” said Marratt sotto voce . “What 
on earth has brought his High Mightiness the attorney 
into a Vacation Court?” 

It was Sir Marmaduke Faringdon, Morry’s succes¬ 
sor as Attorney-General. He was one of the ablest 
lawyers of the day, but rather vain, especially of the 
resemblance he bore to the late Mr. W. E. Gladstone. 
We soon found out what had brought him into court. 
We had. He was appearing against Marratt in 
“Nixon versus Dean.” 

“I say, this is a lark!” whispered Marratt. He 
was as gleeful as though opposing Attorneys-General 
were the greatest fun imaginable. “Take notes for 
me, will you?” 

Where do the young men of the present day get 
their amazing self-confidence from? They are won¬ 
derful. 

The Attorney-General said that our action was mis- 


260 


MORRY 


conceived. We had no need, nor had we the right, to 
bring an action against Mr. Dean for doing his duty. 
Mr. Dean was an officer who received orders from his 
superiors, and was bound to act upon them. 

“But suppose the orders are wrongfully given,” 
queried the judge, “and it is Dean who carries them 
out? That is what Mr. Youatt, who appeared last 
week for the plaintiff, alleged.” 

He glanced at us, and saw that I was not in wig 
and gown; technically, he could not see me at all in 
consequence. 

“I am for the plaintiff, my lord,” said Marratt. 

The Attorney-General did not condescend to look 
in our direction. He said that even admitting the 
force of the judge’s remark, what we ought to have 
done was to have given notice that we disputed the 
right of the Customs to detain the goods, and then he, 
the Attorney-General, had the duty laid upon him 
of applying to a court for a declaration that the 
goods were liable to seizure, as he had done in this 
instance within three days of the dispute being 
brought to his knowledge. Then we could contest 
the validity of the proclamation, or in any other way 
that we chose contend that the goods had been 
wrongfully detained. That was the proper procedure, 
laid down in the Customs Act of 1856. 

This sounded fair enough, but I felt sure there was 
a catch in it. 

Marratt got up, cool as an iced melon. “I submit 
to your lordship that the defendant Dean has wrong¬ 
fully detained our goods. Now, we need our 
goods-” 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


261 


“Just a minute, Mr. Marratt.” The judge wanted 
to help the youngster. “Is it part of your case that 
the goods have not been detained under the Act of 
1856, or any Act?” 

Marratt was on to it like lightning. “Yes, my lord. 
That is what we contend. If I may put it in my own 
words, I should say”—he reflected for a few seconds, 
exactly in the same way as Fiennes did sometimes in 
the middle of a difficult argument—“I should say 
that in our view the defendant is simply a wrong¬ 
doer. He claims to act under an authority which 
does not exist—in my submission. If I may offer 
your lordship an illustration-” 

“Certainly, Mr. Marratt.” The old gentleman was 
enjoying the tussle between a lad of twenty-five and 
the experienced Attorney, and wanted to give Marratt 
an opportunity to show what he could do. 

“Suppose I were to arrive in England from abroad” 
—he had lately done so—“and as I pass through the 
Customs a Customs officer seizes my hat. I say, ‘Give 
me back my hat.’ ‘No,’ says the Customs officer; ‘I 
seize your hat under the Act of 1909.’ But there is 
no Customs Act of 1909. Parliament did not pass 
any such Act. Could it be contended that in such a 
case I cannot compel the Customs officer to appear 
and justify himself if he can? How could the pro¬ 
cedure laid down in the Act of 1856, or any other 
Act govern such a case? And, in my submission, 
that is substantially what has happened in the present 
case.” 

He sat down. He had done very well. 

The Attorney-General said that the illustration was 



262 


MORRY 


fanciful, and went on to argue that it would be impos¬ 
sible to carry on the business of administration if 
every person who chose to think himself wronged by 
the King’s servants could summon them individually 
before the courts and compel them to show, on the 
spot, that their action had been justified. Therefore, 
Parliament had, in relation to various branches of 
the administration, laid down, in different Acts re¬ 
spectively applicable, a procedure, which was to be 
followed whenever a subject conceived himself to be 
wronged, whatever might be the particular manner 
in which he thought himself to be wronged. 

“I cannot follow you as far as that, Mr. Attorney,” 
said the old judge, shaking his white head. “That 
would amount to saying that a subject who is wronged 
by one of the King’s servants without even a show of 
legality is debarred from coming into this court, or 
some other court, and asking for redress. That can¬ 
not be so, Mr. Attorney. Any person—King’s servant 
or other—who does wrong may be cited to appear 
and answer for his wrong-doing. And the court will 
listen to the plaint. That is what courts are for.” 

God bless the English bench! 

We did not get all we wanted, though. The old 
gentleman said, when the unequal battle was over, 
that the issue was so important, and the time to 
elapse before the regular courts would be sitting so 
comparatively short, that we must wait until the term 
began and then apply to one of his learned brethren 
as to expediting the trial. If we would remind him 
the day before making our application, he would 
mention the matter to his learned brother, and say 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


263 


that in his view it was a case which ought to be 
brought to trial as soon as possible. 

Incidentally, he inquired: “By the way, what are 
these goods? I see that the plaintiff describes them 
as toys. But the order of which the validity is in 
question appears to apply only to musical instru¬ 
ments.” 

“They are musical instruments,” said the Attorney- 
General, and I dissented audibly. 

“What do you say they are?” inquired the judge 
of Marratt. I prompted. 

“Things to make a noise with, my lord.” 

For a moment the judge looked more puzzled than 
ever. Then a slow smile overspread his face. “Pos¬ 
sibly,” he murmured; “very possibly.” 

I was beginning to have the same idea. 

When Morry returned to town, I went to Regent’s 
Park. 

“I hear that the Government brought out their big 
gun against you and let it off in the first round,” he 
remarked. 

“Yes. He didn’t get his way, though.” 

“You have not done with Faringdon yet, Dick. He 
is an ingenious fellow.” 

I had still to learn how true that was. I thought 
then that I knew something about dodges for delay. 
I do now, but it was Sir Marmaduke Faringdon who 
taught me. Up and down, backwards and for¬ 
wards, with applications and counter-applications and 
motions and cross-motions, he and his satellites ran 
us through the gamut. The Solicitor-General, Sir 
Brian Macdonough, usually appeared against us, but 


264 


MORRY 


once the attorney himself came, and we were in court 
a whole day. He claimed that the Crown, on whose 
behalf he had taken proceedings, had a right to a 
stay of our action until his was decided, because a 
fiscal consideration was involved—the fee to be paid 
for the licence. He was a great authority on consti¬ 
tutional law, especially as to the royal prerogative 
—an obscure and difficult part of it. He quoted 
instance after instance, back to Edward I., in which 
both Crown and subject had taken action when money 
for the Exchequer was in question, and the subject’s 
action had been stayed. 

I could not understand why he was taking so much 
trouble; after all, the issue must be tried sooner or 
later. Fiennes, who had been sending out for volumes 
of Law Reports all the time the attorney was speaking, 
began his reply by observing that it did not matter 
to us in which form the issue was tried as long as 
it was tried. If the attorney would give an under¬ 
taking that the proceedings on his part would be 
brought to trial this term, we would agree to a stay 
of our action. 

The attorney, who was on the point of leaving the 
court, shook his head. “I will undertake that there 
shall be no unavoidable delay,” he assured the judge. 

“That means nothing,” commented Fiennes in a 
sarcastic undertone. 

The attorney went out. 

“What did you say, Mr. Fiennes?” inquired the 
judge. 

“I ventured to observe that the undertaking offered 
by the learned attorney is practically valueless, my 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


265 


lord. Everyone knows that the Crown never hurries 
over Customs cases. ‘This year, next year, sometime’ 
—well, no, I must not finish the jingle, though I 
fancy it might be never for us.” 

In a leisurely fashion he arranged the volumes he 
had been consulting in a row. It was a long row. 
The judge seemed to be immersed in thought. 

“If that is all the Crown will undertake,” pur¬ 
sued Fiennes, “there is no alternative. I shall have 
to convince your lordship that your lordship need 
not grant a stay unless your lordship thinks fit to do 
so on the merits of the case, and as to that I can show 
your lordship in a few minutes that in this case there 
is not a shadow of justification for a stay.” 

“Is that so?” said the judge interestedly. “What 
is this case about?” 

I was puzzled. The issue in the action—whether 
Bill had a right to his box of toys without the Gov¬ 
ernment’s permission—was not in the question that 
day. The only question was, were we entitled to 
force Mr. Dean, or his legal representatives, into 
court to justify what he had done? It did not matter 
in the least what it was that he had done. 

But the little man on the bench seemed to think 
it did. 

“This certainly appears to be a question which 
should be settled speedily,” he was saying. “Mr. 
Risque, can you tell me when you are likely to be 
ready with these proceedings of yours?” 

Risque—the attorney’s junior left in charge— 
couldn’t. The judge looked dissatisfied. 

Then Fiennes began on his argument. In his 


266 


MORRY 


leisurely fashion he, too, quoted precedents. The 
judge became pettish. 

“Are you going to follow the attorney’s example, 
and take me back to the Plantagenets?” he inquired 
as he noted another reference. “Because, if so, it is 
going to take me weeks to decide this.” 

“I regret that so severe a burden should be thrown 
upon your lordship,” responded Fiennes, “but, as I 
ventured to point out, it could easily be avoided.” 

Then I saw how doggy Fiennes was, and began to 
laugh inwardly. The judge, being human, did not 
wish to spend over law-books hours and hours when 
he might have been going for drives with his wife, 
or playing cards, or whatever he did when he was 
not on the bench: Fiennes had pointed out a way of 
escape, and meant to drive him into it. 

He succeeded. The judge began to bully Risque 
—who, of course, was in no way responsible for the 
attorney’s tactics—and ultimately made things so hot 
for him that he sent a note out of court, asking what¬ 
ever dark powers lurked in the background for per¬ 
mission to do what the judge wanted. Permission was 
given, and he undertook to bring the “Attorney- 
General versus Nixon” to trial that term; whereupon 
Fiennes agreed that “Nixon versus Dean” should be 
stayed, which meant that it would be dropped. As 
he had said, that did not matter to us; all we wanted 
was to have the issue tried. 

I did not venture to congratulate him, because he 
might have thought it cheeky. I expressed my admi¬ 
ration to Marratt, adding: 

“I can’t understand why the other side should have 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


267 


gone to so much trouble over a mere pedantry.”— 
The reason given, in court, was that if we were 
allowed to succeed in bringing Dean to book it would 
create a dangerous precedent. 

Marratt looked at me. “The Government wanted 
to put off the trial of the issue as long as possible.” 

“Why?” 

“Some political reason, Abramson told Fiennes it 
probably would be so, and that was why he had 
advised you to begin the action against Dean before 
we came into it. We could use the action against 
Dean as a lever, see? Which is what Fiennes has 
done.” 

So the strategy was really Morry’s! I felt rather 
sore because he had not explained it to me at the 
commencement. Evidently he did not trust me in 
such matters. I reflected, however, that he was prob¬ 
ably right not to do so. I should have been angry, 
and might have talked about the way in which the 
case was being conducted by the Government; which, 
if it had come to Faringdon’s ears, would have done 
us no good. Morry had not taken any interest in 
the case since. I had been a little aggrieved about 
that. 

But Faringdon had not done with us even then. 
He made use of his privilege as a Law Officer of the 
Crown to put the trial off until it was too late for it 
that term. The Law Officers have, by courtesy at 
least, a preference as to the arrangement of dates— 
that very complex problem which leads sometimes 
to a barrister not being present when he has been 
briefed—the idea being that the Crown must be 


268 


MORRY 


properly represented, whoever else suffers. When 
the next term began we had a day fixed, and then 
another putting off. The thing got on my nerves. I 
began to haunt the courts, like my namesake Richard 
Carstone in “Bleak House.” As a matter of course, 
I went into courts where Morry was appearing when 
he was appearing, and usually waited to speak to him 
when he came out; so it happened that one day we 
walked down the gallery on the Chancery side 
together. 

Faringdon came along. The great men nodded to 
each other, and were passing on, when Morry turned 
back. 

“Faringdon—I hope you will not have to ask for 
another postponement in your Customs case fixed for 
Thursday. I am booked up for the next three weeks 
with the Commission.”—The Government still made 
use of Morry, and, some time before, had graciously 
bestowed on him a very thankless job. 

“Are you in that?” inquired Sir Marmaduke, 
referring to the case. 

“Yes. They have briefed me at the last moment.” 

Sir Marmaduke nodded and went on. 

Thursday was the day last fixed for our case, and 
I had been hoping very much that we should not be 
put off again, because we were to be before Sir 
Thomas Manley, a strong judge with that sobriety of 
intelligence which is the best of all judicial qualities. 
But for all I knew Morry might have been briefed 
in some other Customs case. I waited until we 
reached the private room he had as an ex-Law Officer. 

“Morry, do you mean that-” 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


269 


64 Yes, Dick. I rang up Hemingway, and asked him 
whether he thought your friend would object to my 
lending Fiennes a hand.” 

Object! 

44 He said, 4 No.’ I told him the fee would be 
nominal—a guinea.”—Morry appearing for a 
guinea!— 44 But I am in a predicament. I have no 
junior. Hemingway suggested briefing Lawes, but 
Lawes has enough to do. I have been wondering 
whether you would be so kind as to act with me.’ 

I was overwhelmed. I tried to say- 

44 Rubbish!” said Morry with his beam. 

So I had to get me another wig and gown after all. 

I spent the intervening days in a feverish con¬ 
dition. I could not leave the thing alone, and hung 
about, trying to get a chance to talk to Marratt, but 
Marratt was all day in court and up to his eyes in 
work afterwards. The consultation was fixed for 
Wednesday afternoon, at six. Wednesday was a 
dreadful day for me. In the luncheon hour I met 
Lawes, the man Morry had taken into his chambers to 
slog for him. 

44 Your Customs case,” said Lawes. “I suppose 
you found 4 Hunt versus Devine’?” 

“No. What’s that?” I knew the precedents by 
heart. 

“An Admiralty case. That was why it occurred to 
me that you might have missed it. Come upstairs.” 

He showed me the case. It seemed to me to be 
just what we wanted. 

“Rather good, that? But don’t say I put you on 
to it. Abramson told me to leave the matter alone.” 



270 


MORRY 


I did not like this, but I could not well refuse to 
do as he asked. I spent the afternoon gloating over 
‘Hunt versus Devine,’ went up to Morry’s chambers 
with it at half-past five, and waited. At ten minutes 
to six Duncan came in and said: 

“Sir Maurice has been asking for you, sir. Will 
you go into his room?” 

I went in. I was horribly nervous. I had never 
acted officially before. 

Morry was reading his brief. Without looking up, 
he said: “The consultation in the ‘Attorney-General 
versus Nixon.’ It is to be in Fiennes’ chambers, 
Duncan says, at six.” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you anything to say to me?” 

“I want to call your attention to this.” I put the 
book in front of him. 

“Ah.” He read. “Yes. Yes. Urn. This is very 
good, Dick. Does Fiennes know of it?” 

I said guiltily that I had only chanced on it that 
day. 

Morry read on for a few minutes. It was a long 
case. He turned to the judgment. 

“Quite in our favour,” he said in another two 
minutes or so. “Shall we go across?” 

We went to Fiennes’ chambers. Bill was there 
with Hemingway, and I introduced him to Morry, of 
whom he inquired genially: 

“Are you goin’ to give the Government hell, too?” 

“I hope so,” replied Morry. “We shall do our 
best.” 

Bill said nothing to that. He sat down in a comer, 
and stared at the speakers in turn. 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


271 


Morry refused to take charge of the consultation. 
Fiennes stated our case with a precision that could 
hardly have been improved upon. He referred to 
most of the precedents Marratt and I had collected, 
and summarised the whole thing in a few words. 

“The question is, does the doctrine of sui generis 
apply to the clause or not. That is the issue in a 
nutshell. I think it does.” 

“I agree,” said Morry. “Are those all your prec¬ 
edents?” 

“There are one or two others, but they are really 
covered by those I have referred to.” 

“Then there is one other case to which we might, 
I think, refer. Youatt found it this afternoon. ‘Hunt 
versus Devine’—an Admiralty case. Did you bring 
the volume with you, Dick?” 

“Yes.” 

“Give it to Mr. Fiennes.” 

“The case is this,” pursued Morry in his easy 
amiable fashion. He proceeded to summarise it, and, 
quick as I had known him to be in the old days at 
tearing the heart out of a thing, I was amazed by^the 
mastery he displayed. “That covers us, I think, he 
observed in his mildest tone at the end. Fiennes, who 
had been following him by the book, agreed, and, 
to my discomfort, I found that I had covered myself 
with glory. 

When we broke up I told Bill to wait for me. 1 
took him to the Cock for a drink. 

“Is that Jew chap the man who’s come in to take 
charge—the man Hemingway told me about?” 
“Yes.” 


272 


MORRY 


“He’s an awfully good pal of yours, isn’t he?” 

“Yes.” 

“Here’s to him,” said Bill tersely, and drank. 

“You must have got a rum lot of pals, Hereward,” 
was his next observation. 

I said that had occurred to me sometimes. 

“I’ll lay you haven’t got a better one than him.” 

“No man ever had a better.” 

“Would he come and dine with us—me and you 
—when it’s all over?” 

“If we win? Yes, I should think so.” 

“If you win?” Bill gazed at me. “He’ll be there, 
won’t he, directin’ operations?” 

“Certainly. He is our leader.” 

“Then what are you worryin’ about? Win! Of 
course you’ll win.” 

“How do you know?” 

Bill put down his empty glass, and leaned his face 
close to mine. “I’ve heard his sort of talk before, 
Oswald. I wasn’t sure of him at first. I thought he 
might be like you. But when he said ‘That covers us, 
I think,’ I saw what kind of a fellow he was. My 
brigadier in Africa was another of the same sort; 
all you could do for the Boers when he’d finished 
with ’em was to bury ’em, and all anybody will be able 
to do for those other chaps to-morrow evenin’ will be 
to take ’em home in a cab.—Let’s have another of 
these, they’re very small.” 

We went into court, and took our places. As 
leader, Morry sat near the middle, Fiennes being on 
his right; I, of course, was in the row behind. On 
Morry’s left were the Law Officers, the Attorney- 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


273 


General next him and the Solicitor-General on Far- 
ingdon’s left. Macdonough was a great contrast to 
his fellow Law Officer. He was short and thickset, 
and something of a bully. He had been promoted 
to the position he held on account of his political 
services rather than for his knowledge of the law. 
He was reputed to be miserly, and it was also said 
that he was too fond of the bottle—especially the 
kind of bottle that contains spirits. He and Faring- 
don had one point in common, however—they were 
both scholars. 

It is usual, among these big men, for those who 
happen to have come into court first to nod to the 
others as they take their places. In this case, Far- 
ingdon and Macdonough were engaged in conver¬ 
sation and did not notice Morry for a few minutes. 
Then Faringdon looked round, said, in his slightly 
patronising way, 46 Ah, Abramson! Troublesome fel¬ 
low!” and resumed his conversation with Mac¬ 
donough, who had nodded curtly to Morry. 

A minute or so later, Morry turned to say some¬ 
thing to me, and in his eyes I saw the spark. 

I was amazed. He had come across from chambers 
in the utmost good humour, chatting about David; he 
had shown no sign of keenness in regard to the case. 
I thought that he had only come into it as a compli¬ 
ment to me; now it struck me that Faringdon and 
Macdonough would do well to look to their guns 
instead of discussing the Dionysian myth. Morry 
meant to have their blood. 

Faringdon opened his case. He took the line 
Fiennes had prophesied he would take—that the doc- 


274 


MORRY 


trine of sui generis did not apply in this instance— 
but some of his observations puzzled me. He went 
along in his easy flowing style until he came to his 
precedents. He turned over the pages of his brief, 
and scrutinised a list through his eyeglasses. 

“The first case to which I wish to call your lord¬ 
ship’s attention is one which was tried in the Admi¬ 
ralty Court some forty years ago—‘Hunt versus 
Devine.’ ” 

I nearly jumped out of wig and gown. My case! 
The other side were going to quote it against us! In 
my agitation I leaned down to speak to Morry, and 
saw that he was lying back in his peaceful attitude, 
with the pencil beating “Things-Go-Well.” I re¬ 
covered myself. Faringdon flowed on about “Hunt 
versus Devine.” The judge was looking puzzled. 
Macdonough plucked at Faringdon’s sleeve, whis¬ 
pered to him urgently. He paused to give attention 
to what Macdonough was saying. 

“Yes, Mr. Attorney?” said the judge. “The papers 
in this case were sent to me on Saturday, and I have 
been spending a portion of what is, I believe, sup¬ 
posed by the public to be my leisure time in studying 
them. ‘Hunt versus Devine’ was not mentioned at 
the previous hearings, but I looked it up. What 
puzzles me at present is that, as I read it, the judgment 
is against you. Perhaps you will enlighten me.” 

The Attorney-General had made a ghastly blunder. 
He had been supplied with a list of precedents that 
were favourable to the contentions he had to put for¬ 
ward, and a list of those that were not—those we 
should probably put in—and he had mistaken the 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


275 


one for the other, quoted the first case on the wrong 
list; it would be at the top because it was the most 
unfavourable one from their point of view. If he 
had pulled himself up before he got into it, and 
substituted the title of the first case he actually wished 
to quote, with a word of apology, it would have 
passed as a slip. But he had gone on about it. The 
mistake would have been barely excusable in a raw 
junior. 

He met it very well. He used the cliche “As your 
lordship pleases,” and, with only the briefest of 
pauses, went on to quote the right case. But, during 
the pause, Morry said, in a deep voice audible to 
everyone in court: 

“Advocacy!” The tone was loaded with contempt. 

The judge looked up—I fancy he had been having 
a little chuckle to himself—and gazed at Morry in 
surprise. I thought he was going to say something 
by way of reproof. But Morry was, apparently, 
dozing; he did not appear to be paying any attention 
to what was going on. So the judge decided not to 
notice his breach of good manners. 

Faringdon noticed it, though; he winced. I felt 
hot. That Morry—Morry the suave, the self-con¬ 
trolled, should let himself go in an almost vulgar 
fashion! Faringdon had made a bad blunder, cer¬ 
tainly; but Morry had no right to insult him about 
it, to rub his nose into it—not in that way, or at that 
time. 

Faringdon sailed along, handling his matter well. 
He made a good deal of several cases which we had 
not considered particularly good for him, but I did 


276 


MORRY 


not see what he was driving at until the judge 
inquired: 

“Do you say, then, that although the doctrine ot 
sui generis is generally applicable, it is not univer¬ 
sally so?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“I do not wish to throw you out in your argument,” 
said the judge, “but can you give me, now, an idea 
as to what the line of demarcation is?” 

“I am about to do so, my lord,” replied Faringdon. 
He stated it, and it seemed to me astonishingly inge¬ 
nious. Briefly, he argued that in applying the doc¬ 
trine of sui generis , it was legitimate, even necessary, 
to consider how the words to which it was proposed 
to apply it came to be where they were. He con¬ 
tended that sui generis had been applied in this way; 
it was for that reason that he had dwelt on the 
cases we had thought almost valueless for him. He 
proceeded to show how the words “opium, laudanum, 
or any other kind of goods” came to be in the Act 
cited in the proclamation. He traced the source of 
them, through previous Acts, back to an Act of Charles 
II., where, lo and behold, all sorts of things might 
have been prohibited as to importation by an Order 
in Council. He claimed that, therefore, when Parlia¬ 
ment authorised the words “or any other goods” in 
the Act of 1873, it was intended that they should 
mean “any other goods of the kinds which have 
previously been prohibited in the same manner.” 
If that were so, it was perfectly in order for musical 
instruments to be prohibited. 

I should have been distinctly unhappy if Morry’s 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


277 


pencil had not kept on with its tune. He told me at 
luncheon that it was all right so far. 

When we resumed there was a discussion between 
Faringdon and the judge. It seemed that the judge 
found difficulty in accepting his theory of the appli¬ 
cability of sui generis . The discussion terminated in 
Faringdon’s remarking: 

“I must leave it with your lordship. My second 
submission is that the proclamation would be valid 
if no Act were cited at all.” 

Morry’s pencil stopped dead. 

“The Crown is competent to issue it in any case, 
and it has all the force of law,” pursued Faringdon 
smoothly, “as I shall proceed to show your lordship.” 

He proceeded. At first I was simply staggered. 
The idea that the Crown, in a constitutional country, 
could legislate off its own bat, was so new to me that 
I could not believe it. But Faringdon showed that 
it was so in regard to some matters. It was univer¬ 
sally admitted, he argued, that the Crown had what 
are called “residuary powers,” that wherever the 
competency of the Crown was not limited, the Crown 
was free to take action. 

“Yes, I follow you there,” said the judge, “but do 
you say that the Crown is competent to prohibit the 
importation of goods?” 

“No, my lord,” rejoined Faringdon. “I regret 
that I have not made myself clear. The Crown has 
undoubtedly surrendered the power to prohibit the 
importation of goods. But it has never surrendered 
the right to direct that the importation of certain 
kinds of goods shall be permissible only under 


278 


MORRY 


licence, or to attach conditions to the granting of 
such licences. As I shall show your lordship.” 

“Just a moment, Mr. Attorney,” said the judge. 
“Let me have this clear. You say that the Crown 
is competent to limit the importation of goods by 
way of licence?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“Any kind of goods?” 

“Any kind of goods whatsoever,” replied the 
Attorney-General confidently. 

“Even things necessary for life—wheat, for 
instance?” 

I laughed to myself. It was just like Manley to 
shear through Faringdon’s word-spinning with a 
stroke of common sense. For, of course, no one 
could say- 

“Yes, my lord.” 

What! Our very daily bread, in theory at any 
rate, at the mercy of the Crown! 

But the judge seemed to take the idea seriously. 

“You also say that the Crown can attach any con¬ 
ditions it pleases to the granting of such licences?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“Then ... is there no limitation to this power?” 

The Attorney-General hesitated for a moment. “It 
is to be presumed that the Crown will act reason¬ 
ably,” he suggested. 

“Where do you find that?” 

They discussed the point. The judge did not accept 
the attorney’s suggestion that such a limitation was to 
be presumed. 

“Your argument seems to me to be this. In so 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


279 


far as the Crown has not surrendered a power, it 
can use it. It has never surrendered this. Sup¬ 
posing that to be so, has this power ever been limited? 
Because, if not, it must be unlimited.” 

It was evident that he thought this a difficulty. 
Unlimited powers are a tall order in a constitutional 
country. Faringdon reflected. 

“Statute of Monopolies,” supplied Morry comfor¬ 
tably, and I became aware that Morry’s pencil was 
beating a new tune. Like “Things-Go-Well,” it had 
three beats to it; but the last was cut in two, giving 
a jigging effect. This bewildered me. 

“Er—yes,” said the Attorney-General; “I should 
say that the issue of a licence to one person only, 
or even to a few persons, and the refusal of licences 
to others, would come into conflict with the Statute 
of Monopolies. I think that constitutes such a limi¬ 
tation as your lordship is seeking.—Thank you,” 
rather stiffly, to Morry. 

“You might go further,” said Morry amiably. 
“You might say, I think, that licences must be 
issued to everybody on the same conditions.” 

“Thank you very much,” said the attorney cor¬ 
dially.—To the judge: “I think that is so.” 

I was lost. Why was Morry assisting Faringdon? 

He did it again. In the course of another dis¬ 
cussion, the judge remarked that the imposition of 
fees was in effect a tax. 

“It may be so,” said the Attorney-General hardily. 

“But you know, Mr. Attorney, the Crown cannot 
of its proper power levy taxes,” expostulated the 
judge. 


280 


MORRY 


“It cannot levy taxes as such,” replied the ingen¬ 
ious attorney. “The Crown surrendered the right to 
levy taxes without the consent of Parliament under 
the Statute of 1640, but there is nothing in the 
Statute which impinges on the power of the Crown 
to impose conditions in regard to licences for the 
importation of goods.” 

“In other words, there is a gap in the statute?” 

“A hole, if I may so express it, my lord.” 

“Can you give me any instance in which this 
power of the Crown to levy taxes indirectly is used?” 

The Attorney-General could not. He was prepared 
to show that there were “holes”—the word recurred— 
in other statutes limiting the power of the Crown in 
other ways, and that the Crown had thereafter used 
the remnant of power left to it; but he was unable to 
show that it had used this particular power. 

The judge referred to the tenacity with which 
Parliament, especially the Lower House, has asserted 
its sole competence in matters of finance. 

“It would help your argument, I think, if you 
could show that even this particular field has not 
been completely covered, because, undoubtedly, in a 
general way it has.” 

Faringdon leaned back with pursed lips. 

“The Lord Chamberlain, who is a sort of superior 
domestic servant of the Sovereign, exacts fees for 
licencing plays which are in effect a tax,” purred 
Morry, “but I do not recollect that he has ever been 
authorised by Parliament to do so.” 

The attorney was most grateful, and the judge said 
that he thought the instance was sound. 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


281 


Where were we? I had known Morry to help the 
other side in regard to facts many a time, but this 
was the first occasion on which he had assisted an 
opponent to buttress the weak places in an argument. 
And, from that point on, the attorney built up his 
case with a logical force that reduced me to misery. 
All the time I was haunted by the bewildering beat 
of the pencil; it kept on with the new tune. 

When the court rose we all went out at the same 
time, and in the gallery Farringdon said to Morry 
in his jaunty way: 

“Well, Abramson! Have I surprised you?” 

“Very much,” replied Morry blandly. 

“I thought I should. I hope to hear you on the 
matter.” 

We went to Morry’s room. I noticed that Fiennes 
was thoughtful. When we got in, he said to Morry: 

“Is there anything in this, do you think?” 

“I have not time to discuss the case, replied 
Morry calmly. “I must go down to the House as early 
as I can, and I have several things to do first. I am 
going to leave sui generis to you. I think the judge 
is inclined to be with us there, but in any case you 
can do it better than I. You know all about it.” 

Nothing else was said. I had been expecting 
orders, detailed instructions such as I had many a 
time known Morry to give to his juniors when he 
had heard the other side. Not a hint was vouchsafed 
me. 

I spent a wretched evening. For the first time— 
I am utterly ashamed to own it I contemplated the 
consequences of failure. I had never considered 


282 


MORRY 


them before because Morry’s opinion that the procla¬ 
mation was bad had disposed of uncertainty for me. 
No doubt he had been right as to sui generis; I 
thought we were fairly safe as to that. But what 
good would it be if Faringdon were right as to the 
prerogative? I knew that I was nothing of an author¬ 
ity on matters of law—the law in itself had always 
been beyond me—but I had had a good deal of experi¬ 
ence in estimating the value of an argument, and it 
seemed to me that Faringdon’s case was almost unan¬ 
swerable. It loomed up in my mind all that evening 
like a huge wall. 

And if it were not answered, it would cost Bill 
Nixon- 

When I admitted to Bill that he might possibly be 
let in for five hundred pounds in costs, I was envisag¬ 
ing, not a judgment against him, but a possibility 
which should always be borne in mind by litigants 
with the Crown—that even if they win they may be 
left to pay their own costs, because the Crown has all 
sorts of convenient privileges tucked away which can 
be and are pleaded at times by those who act in its 
name. I had thought myself mighty prudent in 
remembering that. Prudent! I never took into 
account the possibility that Bill might lose his case 
and be made liable for the Crown costs. 

I went to bed late, but even then I could not stop 
trying to estimate how much Bill would have to pay 
if we lost. I had little knowledge of such matters to 
go on, but I could not make it less than fifteen hun¬ 
dred pounds, and it seemed more probable that it 
would be two thousand. Possibly three. And I was 



THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


283 


responsible. Until I came along Regent Street, Bill 
had taken for granted that if the Customs people said 
it was right, it must be right. I had put it into his 
obstinate British head that it might not be right, and 
when I found myself faced with the proclamation and 
thought it was right, instead of admitting that I had 
been mistaken, out of silly pride I had temporised, 
paraded my twopenny-halfpenny knowledge. From 
that point I had been the mover in the matter. 

It was another instance of my impulsiveness in 
business matters, my inability to take heed at the 
right time. I had known of my defect for many years, 
had resolved over and over again not to take any 
decisive step in regard to my affairs without obtaining 
the best advice available; yet, again and again, I had 
blundered. Now I had crowned my blunders by 
advising another. 

I resolved and dismissed various fantastic schemes 
for making up part of his loss to Bill secretly, and 
was grovelling in self-abasement, scorched from head 
to foot with shame, when into my mind there flashed 
a moving picture of the pencil as I had seen it through¬ 
out the afternoon: simultaneously came the convic¬ 
tion that whatever the new beat might mean exactly, 
it did not mean that things had gone wrong. It was 
quick; all the unfavourable beats were slow. Absurd 
as it may seem, this banished my fears. Never had 
the pencil failed me—never once, when after Morry 
had heard his opponent’s case it had tapped out 
“Things-Go-Well,” had things gone wrong. There 
was Macdonough still to come, but I was not afraid 
of him. I fell asleep instantly, and went down to the 


284 


MORRY 


Temple next morning in a cheerful frame of mind. 
Marratt was up at Morry’s chambers. 

“Well, what did you think of the Attorney-General’s 
law?” 

“Rotten,” said I boldly. 

He looked surprised. “Fiennes doesn’t think so.” 

“Then Fiennes is going to learn something.” I 
was as blithe that morning as I had been despondent 
during the night. I trusted in my tower. 

The tower seemed to be in a good humour, too, 
when it arrived, rather late, laden in its usual fashion 
—the car must have been half full of books and bags 
of papers. The tower said, in an absent-minded tone, 
while it was glancing over some letters: 

“Ah, yes! The ‘Attorney-General versus Nixon’ 
this morning, isn’t it? We shall finish that by lunch¬ 
time, I think.” 

“Finish by lunch-time?” 

“Er, yes. Unless Macdonough takes over an hour. 
I don’t see why he should. I shall not have very 
much to say. The judge is with us on sui generis , 
Dick.” 

“Yes, you said so.” 

“Well, do we go over?” 

We went over. Morry talked about a play. 

Macdonough began by poking fun at us. “We 
say, here is an Act of Parliament clearly authorising 
us to prohibit the importation of any kind of goods. 
It says so. The other side say, ‘Yes —sui generis 
and sit up and look satisfied as if they had flattened 
us out completely. Sui generis! What is it? A race¬ 
horse? The name of a lady? Or is it invoked as 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


285 


some kind of all-powerful Arabian djinn? Then 
he fell to in his heavy fashion on the law of the 
matter. I was not perturbed. 

Just before he sat down the Attorney-General came 
in. He nodded jauntily to Morry, seeming to imply 
that he had come into court for the pleasure of hear¬ 
ing him. He may have done so. 

The case for the Crown concluded, Morry did not 
get up at once. He talked to Fiennes for some minutes 
in a negligent style. What about, I don t know. The 
court waited. When he got up, it was with his most 
easy-going air. 

“The learned Attorney-General,” he began in a 
bantering tone, “propounded, in the course of yester¬ 
day, a constitutional principle which for me has all 
the charm of novelty. My knowledge of jurispru¬ 
dence is so limited that I do not even know in what 
country ‘this principle may obtain. I suppose that 
it may obtain in Barataria; or in Ruritania; or, pos¬ 
sibly, only in Upside-Downia. I do not know. But 
this I submit with confidence”—his voice rang out 
like a trumpet—“it does not form part, it never has 
formed part, and it never could form part of the 
jurisprudence of this country. 

He resumed the bantering tone for a moment. 
“Where does the learned attorney profess to find this 
principle? In mouseholes! 

He uttered the last two words with such energy 
of scorn that they seemed to shake the court as, in 
another sense, the phrase did cause the court to shake. 
There was a general titter, and the judge bent his 
head down to hide a smile. 


286 


MORRY 


“The learned attorney professes to find a mouse- 
hole in this Act of Parliament, and another mouse- 
hole in that. Some of these holes are not of sufficient 
capacity to accommodate even a mouse; they might 
perhaps accommodate a worm. Others, as I hope to 
show to your lordship’s satisfaction, are not really 
holes at all. They would not accommodate even an 
insect. The learned attorney put these holes together, 
and constructed, to his own satisfaction at least, a 
tunnel—an underground passage, if I may be per¬ 
mitted the adjective, large enough to accommodate 
the whole trainload of public right. Given the neces¬ 
sary impulsion, it might travel by this road to an 
unknown destination. If I may offer a suggestion, I 
would say that the station at which it would arrive 
would be Disintegration.” 

The play on the sound of the words was charac¬ 
teristically Morryish. 

“What is this principle? With your lordship’s 
permission, I will examine it. Stripped of unessen¬ 
tials, it is this: Fundamentally there is an absolute 
power—the power of the Crown. The learned attor¬ 
ney said, and the citizens of the United Kingdom may 
be glad to hear it, that in so far as the Crown had 
explicitly surrendered portions of this absolute power, 
it was thereby limited. The learned attorney con¬ 
descended to say, that inasmuch as the Crown sur¬ 
rendered, in the reign of Charles I., the right to levy 
taxes without the consent of Parliament, the Crown 
could not now impose taxes, as such, without that 
consent. 

“As such! The learned attorney was careful to 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


287 


make the qualification, because it was necessary for 
his case to proceed to argue, as he did proceed to 
argue, that although the Crown could not of its proper 
power impose taxes as such, there was nothing to pre¬ 
vent it from imposing upon its subjects regulations 
which involved what was in effect a tax. 

“Surrender! You cannot surrender what you have 
not got. What! Does the learned attorney seriously 
contend that the right of the subject to resist demands 
made upon him by the Crown for money, when the 
demand has not been authorised by Parliament, 
depends upon the Statute of 1640? Is it possible 
that the learned attorney’s memory, notoriously in¬ 
fallible, has made a slip?” 

I wished that he had spared Faringdon the jibe. He 
was referring, of course, to the Attorney-General s 
blunder in connection with “Hunt versus Devine. It 
was quite in order for Morry to rag him about it 
now, if he liked, but I thought he might have spared 
him, cordiality having been restored between them 
after the gratuitous insult of the day before. 

“It must be so. With your lordship s permission, 
I will refresh the learned attorney’s memory. What 
happened in 1640 was that the Crown renounced a 
pretension. The statute to which he refers was passed 
to annul a decision of the Court of Star Chamber 
three years before, in the case of the ‘Crown versus 
Hampden.’ That was a majority decision, and 
Parliament declared, as Parliament was competent 
to do, that it was wrong. The true view in the ‘Crown 
versus Hampden’ had been stated at the time by 
judges who were in a minority Croke, Hutton, Den- 


288 


MORRY 


ham, Bramston, and Davenport—predecessors of 
your lordship’s,” he added in his most courtly tone 
to the judge. I think the judge appreciated the 
subtle compliment. “Parliament declared that to be 
so. And the true view was this.” In his deep voice, 
and with a slower utterance, he recited: “ ‘It is utterly 
contrary to law to set any charge whatever upon the 
subject except in Parliament,’ ” and turned on the 
Attorney-General, with a tone of intense scorn: “What 
has ‘as such’ to do with that?” 

He had evoked the dead generations—the sturdy, 
stubborn men who resisted tyrant king and robber 
baron, would have it that what was theirs was their 
own. And here was Bill Nixon, their descendant, 
cheerfully standing up for his right to his box of 
toys. I was proud of Bill, but I was prouder still 
of Morry. He, the man of alien blood, was justifying 
his claim to a share in the common heritage of the 
English-born. 

“The same is true as to restraints imposed by 
the king’s servants upon the king’s subjects, or the 
conditions attached to such restraints. In so far as 
they are authorised in Parliament, they are lawful; 
but not otherwise. The right of a subject of the king 
to bring goods into the country does not depend upon 
the king’s pleasure. It is limited; it always has been 
limited, and the limitations have varied from time to 
time. Over a period of several hundred years, the 
limitations were gradually increased. Then, in the 
middle of the last century, they were all swept away, 
with a few exceptions. The Act of 1856 restored to 
the subject all but a small part of his freedom to 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


289 


bring into the country whatever he liked. He cannot 
now be deprived of jot or tittle of that freedom save 
by Parliament—not of the king’s proper power, or 
by the king in council.” He used the hammer with 
terrific effect. “By Parliament—and nothing else . 
“That is the law of England.” 

He had driven his hammer clean through Faring- 
don’s wall. I could see daylight now. 

“With your lordship’s permission, I will defer the 
citation of my authorities for that view until I have 
examined in detail the learned attorney’s mouse- 
hoies.” 

The judge kept his face this time. He bowed 
graciously. 

Morry’s manner became passionless, and ice-cola. 
He took Faringdon’s points, one by one, and examined 
them. His lucidity almost made one shiver. He 
showed that there was no general principle to be 

deduced. On the contrary- 

He began to quote cases. Where had he got his 
precedents from? I was the last person who should 
have asked that question, because I was the person 
who should best have been able to answer it; but as 
Morry had given me no hint of the line he intended 
to take in reply to Faringdon, I had done nothing. 
And he had gone to the House of Commons 

The judge asked for a reference—that is, for the 
number of the volume, and the page, in the Law 
Reports in which the judgment Morry was quoting 
was to be found. As the volumes are many, refer¬ 
ences are indispensable. „ 

“I regret that I have not made a note of it, replied 




290 


MORRY 


Morry in his courtly style. “But I think your lord- 
ship will find it in”—he named a volume—“some¬ 
where about page ...” 

He was relying on his memory—performing an 
almost impossible feat. But why? He could have 
set me to work the evening before—Marratt, too, for 
that matter. 

A little later the judge put the same question again. 
“Have you that reference, Sir Maurice?” 

“No, my lord. I have not had time since yester¬ 
day to prepare myself. The learned attorney’s argu¬ 
ment was novel to me, and I must ask your lord¬ 
ship’s indulgence in doing the best I can.”—Was 
there a ghost of a smile on the earnest judicial counte¬ 
nance?—“Mr. Youatt, who is with me, will send your 
lordship a note to-night of all these references.” 

Faringdon had turned his head; he was eyeing 
Morry, and now I knew the motive of Morry’s tour 
de force. He was looking apologetically at the judge, 
but plain as the big nose on his face was another look 
which said to Faringdon: “Yes, I am the master, not 
only in my particular branches of the game, but 
in yours—when I choose.” 

He went on. Then, although he had arranged 
with Fiennes to leave sui generis to him, he began 
on Faringdon’s version of it. 

“The learned attorney did not rest his case entirely 
on that. Why, I don’t know. If his doctrine were 
sound, it would dispose of the issue before the court. 
He opened, however, with a disquisition on the doc¬ 
trine of sui generis. He propounded a theory as to 
the correct method of applying it. The members of 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


291 


the bar ought to be grateful to him, as well as the 
honourable body of solicitors. It is now so light a 
task to construe Acts of Parliament that, notoriously, 
we have scarcely anything to do. The learned attor¬ 
ney’s theory, once sanctioned by your lordship, would 
provide us with plenty to do. In construing an Act 
of Parliament, we should have to consider, not merely 
what the Parliament which passed the Act thought 
it meant, but what all the preceding Parliaments 
thought similar Acts which they had passed meant. 
We should have to burrow-” 

He thundered the last word. 

“_into the past. The learned attorney is 

a member of Parliament. Has he ever, when con¬ 
sidering whether or not he ought to vote for a clause, 
considered, looked up, the source from which the 
draughtsman who drew the clause derived his words. 
Moreover, it is common knowledge that draughtsmen, 
when drawing a bill, prefer, when they can nn 
them, to use exactly the same words as have been 
used before to express the same meaning. Very 
rightly. If it had been the case, that the words 
which we find in the Act of 1873 the relevant words 
in clause twenty-nine—were found in previous Acts, 
the learned attorney might have contended, with some 
force, that they were intended to bear the same 
meaning. 

“But that is not the case. The learned attorney 
referred the court first to the Act of 1856. There, he 
found closely similar words. He then glided, almost 
imperceptibly, over the Act of 1847 to the Act of 
1823. Why did the learned attorney soar over the 




292 


MORRY 


Act of 1847, scarcely touching it as he passed? I 
suggest, because the words in the Act of 1856, the 
source of which the learned attorney professed to 
trace in the Act of 1847, are not the same. They 
are so far from being the same that they cannot pos¬ 
sibly have been intended to bear the same meaning.” 

Macdonough said incautiously: “The Commission¬ 
ers of Customs thought they meant the same,” and 
Morry turned on him like a viper. 

“The Commissioners of Customs! What shall we 
have next? Is it part of the case for the Crown that 
the King may make the law, or the Privy Council 
may make the law, or Commissioners may make the 
law—anybody, except Parliament? Really, I am at 
a loss to meet such contentions seriously.” 

The judge interposed on Macdonough’s behalf. “I 
don’t think the Solicitor-General’s remark was in¬ 
tended to bear the construction you are putting on it, 
Sir Maurice.” 

Morry, undeterred: “Then, what did it mean? 
Why did the learned solicitor refer to the Commis¬ 
sioners?” 

The Solicitor-General, shortly: “You said that the 
relevant words in the Act of 1856 could not have been 
intended to mean the same thing as the corresponding 
words in the Act of 1847. I said that the Commis¬ 
sioners of Customs thought they did, and there is 
evidence to that effect.” 

Morry, sitting down abruptly: “Produce it.” 

The Solicitor-General, explanatorily, to the judge: 
“I did not mean that it was evidence which could be 
produced in court, my lord. But, as a matter of 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


293 


fact, there is a letter, in the possession of the Treasury, 
from the Clerk of the Board of Customs at the time, 
in reference to those words, saying that in the opinion 
of the Commissioners they mean substantially the 
same thing as the corresponding words in the Act of 
1847.” 

The judge, graciously: “I am afraid it is without 
force, Mr. Solicitor.” 

The Solicitor-General: “Oh, quite, my lord.” 

The judge: “Will you go on, Sir Maurice?” 

Morry, rising: “I will, my lord. But I find a 
difficulty in realising where I am. Am I in a 
court of law? Am I interrupted in the course of a 
serious argument by having the opinion of a clerk 
flung at my head? What authority will be quoted 
next? The charwoman at the Board of Trade, per¬ 
haps; we shall hear her view as to the validity of 
the proclamation.” 

Having relieved his feelings with this jibe, he fol¬ 
lowed the Attorney-General s argument closely, back 
to the Act of 1681. He showed, as indeed the 
Attorney-General had shown, that the words in the 
Act of 1681 were capable of bearing quite a different 
meaning from the words in the Act of 1873. He 
resumed his jibing tone: 

“It comes to this. The learned attorney puts a 
rabbit into his hat—the words of the Act of 1873. 
He makes a few passes, and produces from his hat 
a goldfish—the words of the Act of 1681 and says 
to the court: ‘The same thing.’ But it is not the same 
thing. The point of the trick is that it is not the same 
thing. If it were the same thing, there would be no 


294 


MORRY 


object in the trick. But it takes an Attorney-General 
—or a conjurer—to turn one thing into another.” 

The judge, quietly: “I don’t think you should have 
made that comparison, Sir Maurice.” 

Morry, with shameless perfunctoriness: “As your 
lordship pleases. I withdraw it.” He drove his 
argument home in a few pithy sentences. Words in 
an Act of Parliament mean what they obviously mean 
when construed according to the rules. If the meaning 
is not then clear—if there is ambiguity—it may be 
necessary to consider what the Parliament which 
passed the Act probably intended the words to mean. 
In the clause at issue there was no ambiguity. The 
meaning was obvious to anyone who had knowledge 
of the principles on which documents are always con¬ 
strued. But if there had been ambiguity, and it had 
therefore been necessary to ask: “What did the Parlia¬ 
ment which passed this Act probably intend by these 
words?” the answer must have been that they meant 
what we contended they meant—because, that Parlia¬ 
ment was the first Free Trade Parliament, and it could 
not be supposed that it would say in one clause, “The 
ports of this country are to be open for the impor¬ 
tation of all kinds of merchandise whatsoever,” and 
in another that the King in council might prohibit 
whatever he liked. 

Then Morry began on Macdonough. 

“I ventured to hazard two or three guesses, in 
regard to the constitutional principle propounded by 
the learned attorney, as to the country from which he 
might have derived it. In respect of the doctrine 
propounded by the learned solicitor, in the speech 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


295 


to which we have just listened, I can make no such 
guess at all. He must have found his doctrine in 
some realm of fancy which only a sprightly spirit 
may enter.” 

There was a subdued titter. By this time the court 
was crowded with lawyers. The point involved in the 
case had been a good deal discussed in legal circles, 
and, I suppose, word had gone round the buildings 
that Abramson was making a killing. The wigs had 
come to enjoy themselves, and Morry was playing to 
his gallery. 

“Perhaps,” he went on gazing pensively at the 
roof, “the learned solicitor acquired it in the aery 
spaces inhabited by the djinns to whom he alluded. 
It has, to me, the aspect of a doctrine begotten of a 
djinn.” 

There is no difference in pronounciation between 
“djinn” and “gin.” The titter broke out openly, and 
the judge frowned. 

“According to this doctrine, if I understand it 
perhaps I do not; it may be too rare, too refined, for 
a dull intellect like mine to apprehend—but if I 
understand it, there are no rules as to the construction 
of legal documents at all. When I was a law student 
I was taught that there were such rules, that there was 
what may be called a canon of interpretation. 
According to the learned solicitor, if I take him 
rightly, that is not so, and the meaning of words 
depends on the taste and fancy of the construer. Now 
suppose someone claimed ten pounds from the learned 
solicitor on grounds which the learned solicitor con¬ 
sidered insufficient. The learned solicitor, despite his 


296 


MORRY 


accommodating nature, might refuse to admit the 
claim. He might, even, though it is almost inconceiv¬ 
able, be annoyed at its being made. He might write 
back and say: ‘I will see you further before I pay 
you the ten pounds.’ Very well. The claimant, 
adopting the learned solicitor’s doctrine as to the 
latitude permissible in the interpretation of docu¬ 
ments, might contrive an interview, and then sue the 
learned solicitor on the letter as a promissory note.” 

The judge expostulated. “Really, Sir Maurice!” 

“Yes, really, my lord,” rejoined the unabashed 
Morry. “I will show your lordship that the learned 
solicitor’s doctrine amounts to precisely that.” 

He did it. And all the time he was doing it he 
was also levelling taunts against Macdonough. He 
made him ridiculous, at the same time as he made 
his law ridiculous, and the judge did not like it. I 
think he had rather enjoyed Morry’s ragging of Far- 
ingdon, because, as I imagine, he too privately thought 
Faringdon a bit of a windbag despite his undoubted 
abilities. But Morry overdid it in the way of bitter¬ 
ness with regard to Macdonough. He was too per¬ 
sonal. “The learned solicitor,” he kept saying, and 
every time he bit the adjective. Once or twice I had 
thought the judge was going to reprove him before, 
after a particularly scarifying passage, Sir Thomas 
looked up and said: 

“Draw your illustrations from other sources, Sir 
Maurice. Personalities are best avoided.” 

Morry was pulled up for the second time, and 
for the second time he coolly disregarded the fact. 
“As your lordship pleases. I suppose”—he appeared 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


297 


to reflect—“I suppose I was misled by the idea that 
an argument can sometimes be brought home most 
forcibly by an illustration which has a personal 
element.” 

“It is not necessary for you to convince the attorney 
and the solicitor that you are right,” said the judge. 
“You have only to convince me.” 

Macdonough muttered: “He can’t teach me my 
business.” 

“If the task devolved upon me,” retorted Morry 
sweetly, “I should embark upon it with no light 
heart.” 

Except that some fool at the back burst into a 
guffaw and then choked it, there was an awestruck 
silence. 

“Various incidents in this trial,” came from the 
bench in quietly earnest tones, “have betrayed a re¬ 
grettable state of feeling between counsel. I have 
refrained from comment up to now because I feared 
to exacerbate that state of feeling. But when you 
made your last remark, Sir Maurice, you were want¬ 
ing in respect for me.” 

I thought it the most impressive rebuke I had ever 
heard administered in a court of justice. A worthy 
judge. 

Morry faced him with an equal dignity. “It was 
not out of want of respect for your lordship that I 
made it, and I venture to believe your lordship knows 
that. But your lordship is right. It was disrespectful 
to make it. I apologise to your lordship.” The judge 
nodded. Morry turned with even greater dignity to 
Macdonough. “I apologise to you, Sir Brian. 


298 


MORRY 


Macdonough took no notice. Morry fell into the 
passionless manner, and in the next ten minutes tore 
what was left of Macdonough’s argument to tatters. 
So much so, that the judge said: 

“You need not pursue the point, Sir Maurice. Sub¬ 
ject to what may be said in reply, I am with you as 
to that.” 

“I thank your lordship,” replied Morry, and sat 
down instanter. 

The Attorney-General rose and walked out. 
Fiennes got up and began to give them the straight 
doctrine of sui generis . 

As I said, during Morry’s speech the court had 
filled with members of the bar. Now I heard a well- 
known K.C. behind me say drily to his neighbour: 
“I don’t think Manley needs this. What is left of 
the Crown case would not fill a pill-box.” 

That was precisely the effect Morry had produced. 
He had not merely answered the other side’s case; 
he had destroyed it. 

Macdonough replied for the Crown. He was very 
angry, and made a savage attack on Morry for the 
way in which he had behaved. The judge looked 
unhappy, but Morry was not listening; he was reading 
something, and by the back of his head I knew that he 
was reading attentively. 

Judgment was reserved, as it always is in such 
cases, because, unless it is reversed on appeal, it 
will be law for ever—a beacon for the generations 
to come. Therefore, every word must be meticulously 
weighed. (It was delivered ten days later, and a 
finer pronouncement is not to be found in the Law 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


299 


Reports. The last paragraph ran: “I therefore find 
that His Majesty had no power to make the procla¬ 
mation in question, and I declare it to be of no 
effect.”—Some lads, the English judges!) 

As we came out of court Morry turned to Bill and 
said: 

“You are all right, Mr. Nixon. The judge is for 
us. I do not think there will be any appeal.” He 
went away. 

“There!” said the triumphant Bill. “What did I 
tell you, you blushing kangaroo? Come and split 
a bottle.” 

I went to Regent’s Park that evening for dinner. 
There was no one in the hall when I arrived. Pres¬ 
ently Jess came down. 

“How did your case go?” 

“We think we’ve won.” 

“Was Maurice good?” 

“He was a very good dog to-day, but he was a bad 
little dog yesterday morning. He lost his head and 
yapped when he hadn’t ought.” 

“Oh! What made him do that?” 

Morry was coming downstairs. 

“Better ask him.” 

“Maurice, what made you lose your temper yes¬ 
terday in court?” 

Morry looked at me. 

“Advocacy!” I growled, in the best imitation I 
could muster of his tone. 

“You thought that was loss of temper?” 

I said I did. 

“Perhaps you were right to some extent. But I 


300 


MORRY 


had to take the chance that presented itself to me. 
My object was to prevent the judge from forgetting 
Faringdon’s blunder.” 

I suppose I looked mystified. 

“Don’t you understand the position? Faringdon 
knew, of course, that what the Board of Trade people 
had done was indefensible. No doubt he told them, 
when the matter was first brought to his notice, that 
they and their previous advisers were a pack of 
fools. But he had to defend them. That was his 
duty.” 

I said that was what he was a Law Officer for. 

“Precisely. And he had just one chance—to obfus¬ 
cate the judge. He would not have succeeded on his 
argument. Manley is far too sturdy a fellow, and 
too sound in his law, to be taken in by such moon¬ 
shine as Faringdon talked. But I did not know, at 
the outset, what line Faringdon was going to take. 
He might have hit on something much better than that 
nonsense about the prerogative, something that Man- 
ley would have had to consider seriously. If Manley 
had had to do so with the impression in his mind that 
Faringdon was a very clever fellow—the normal view 
of Faringdon, and on the whole the correct one—he 
might just possibly have slipped into thinking that 
Faringdon was infallible. So, when Faringdon made 
his slip, I—er—slashed out. And afterwards, I 
assisted Faringdon, because the more came from me, 
the more I should be the clever fellow in the judge’s 
eyes.” 

“Confound you!” I said to myself. “Shall I never 
get to the end of your clever tricks?” Aloud I 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


301 


asked him: “Why were you angry with Faringdon?” 

Morry regarded me in his fixed fashion. “Surely 
you know what the game was—the game to which Far¬ 
ingdon and Macdonough lent themselves? 

I said I didn’t. 

“To deprive your friend of justice by delaying it. 
The Board of trade wanted the trial put off until 
the summer. They have prepared a bill, which will 
be introduced and presumably passed, legalising the 
prohibition of imports by proclamation. If they 
could have delayed the trial until it becomes an act, 
it would not have been worth your friend s while to 
go on with his case.” 

“In other words, the bureaucrats, finding them¬ 
selves in the wrong, mean to swing the law so as 
to put themselves in the right—Russian fashion. 
Only, not being Russian bureaucrats, they need time 
to do the swinging in.” 

“That is one way of putting it. When Faringdon 
learned that I was going to help Fiennes at the trial, 
he thought I had got up the case because the gang in 
power have slighted me. That was why he called 
me a troublesome fellow yesterday. I was trouble¬ 
some because, as he supposed, I had deliberately 
put a spoke in their political wheel. I admit that I 
was annoyed by the remark, and perhaps it led me 
to hit out harder than I should otherwise have done. 
But that kind of mixture of law and politics does 
vex me, Dick. Faringdon and Macdonough ought not 
to have stooped to such trickery as the attempts to 
evade the issue. They ought to have said to the 
Board of Trade people: ‘We will appear and do our 


302 


MORRY 


best for you, but we will not help you to play a dirty 
game.’ ” 

So that was why Morry had come into the case! 
I had been vain enough to suppose that it was for my 
sake. Remembering the application to the Court of 
Chancery, when Garavan tried to “abuse the process 
of the court,” I saw now what had happened. Far- 
ingdon and Macdonough had tampered with Morry’s 
Shekinah when they tried to substitute the miasma of 
pettifoggery for the radiant cloud of justice: and 
the thunder and the lightnings awoke in Morry as 
they awoke on Sinai of old when the tables of the 
law were graven. The extra little jiggle of the pencil 
was Chaldean. “Mine enemies have delivered them¬ 
selves into my hand,” said the pencil, and the pencil 
was untroubled by any qualm as to the obligation to 
mercy. Morry went forth and slew his enemies 
utterly. 

He went down to the House after dinner, and Jess 
and I sat over the fire and talked. She told me the 
other side of the story. 

“Maurice hesitated for a long time. He saw how 
anxious you were that your friend should win his 
case, and wished to help you. But he felt that for him 
to show up would be tantamount to a declaration of 
war.” She mentioned names. “They won’t forgive 
him, you know. They will ruin him politically if they 
can. I suppose that was why he went for Faringdon 
and Macdonough to-day as savagely as you say he 
did—on the principle of being hanged for a sheep 
—though why anyone should prefer mutton to lamb 
I can’t imagine,” interpolated Jess characteristically. 


THE LAW OF ENGLAND 


303 


“But he will have to pay for it, and he knows it, and 
doesn’t like it. He has been ambitious to go farther 
in politics rather than in the law. Now as he thinks 
—he may have to give politics up.” 

Then I saw what I had done. Unknowingly, I had 
brought Morry to his Rubicon, to the test which comes 
to every man at least once in his life, when he must 
choose between the captaincy of his soul and the 
loaves and fishes. The new propaganda in the party 
had thrown Morry out of his stride, and it might 
have been said loosely that the question of resig¬ 
nation was his Rubicon. But more than merely stand¬ 
ing aside is implied in the crossing of the fateful 
stream. When Caesar set his foot on the further bank, 
it was the gage of battle to his former masters. Morry 
had been waiting for a conjunction of events which 
would enable him to resume his place as an army 
leader. I had come along with the problem of Bill 
Nixon and his silly little squeakers. Morry had seen 
what might happen if he lent his help, and would 
probably never have shown up at all if the bureau¬ 
crats and their tools had refrained from profaning his 
Holy of Holies. . „ 

“It is such a pity that Maurice has not married, 
said Jess thoughtfully. “I wish he would, even now. 
The only regret I should have would be that then I 
could no longer repay him in a measure for his kind¬ 
ness and generosity. He has settled an income on 
me, you know. I could afford to live by myself and 
do what is still needed for my big chicks. 

I went home in a sober mood. How often the inner 
side of a man’s life is in complete contrast with 


304 


MORRY 


the surface he presents to the world! Not long before 
Morry resigned, a journalist with a singular ability 
for thumb-nail biography had treated his as a his¬ 
tory of personal popularity. “Sir Maurice Abramson 
never fails to get what he wants because he never 
quarrels with anybody.” It had struck me then that 
in spite of the popularity on which the Fleet-Streeter 
laid so much emphasis, Morry was a lonely man. 
We walk through life in a lit circle that moves as 
we move; the figures of those with whom our daily 
business brings us in contact may only flit half-seen 
round the edges, but for most of us friends walk 
within the circle, now one, now another. Morry had 
always walked alone. He said, and I had other 
reasons for believing it, that I was his most intimate 
personal friend; yet, even to me, he never dropped 
his guard. 

He had sacrificed his chance of happiness to his 
ambitions: was Fate, in her ironic fashion, going to 
cheat him of his reward? 


CHAPTER XIV 
The Secret of the Dusk 

I was shocked to learn from the Exchange tele¬ 
grams posted at the club that Sir Dominic Scaferlati 
had been found dead in his car on its arrival at Bor- 
lington Towers the previous evening. 

Mrs. Riordan had died twelve months before. I 
had been at the Towers since, and had made the 
acquaintance of Anthony Scaferlati, Sir Dominic s 
grand-nephew, a likeable young fellow. He talked 
to me about motor-cars, referring to several inven¬ 
tions of which I had never heard; there was a note 
of regret in some of these references, especially those 
to the “Gearless Car.” I gathered that he had been 
in business on his own account for some time, and 
was about to rejoin the firm. Elena, now eighteen, 
had improved in some ways, but Nesta said she was 
still liable to fits of malevolence. Sir Dominic seemed 
shrunken and enfeebled. 

I had seen them all again within the last month, 
except the old gentleman: Nesta invited me to tea 
one day when she was bringing Elena to town, and 
young Scaferlati was there. Sir Dominic was then 
just back from Milan: there had been a strike at the 
works, and he had gone to the assistance of his nephew 
Ernest, his appearance being the signal for a fresh 
outburst of socialistic attacks on him; his life had 
even been attempted. 


305 


306 


MORRY 


Now his life was over. I went to the telephone 
room and asked the operator to get me the Towers. 

There was a long delay. 

The operator held converse with someone hidden 
in the invisibility beyond the mouthpiece. “What?” 
“Mayfair 1.” “Yes.” “Yes.” “His name?” She 
glanced at me. “Mr. Richard Youatt. Y-o-u-a-t-t. 
Try to hurry them up, please.” 

She turned with a smile. “Funny. Trunks wanted 
to know your name.” 

It was certainly unusual. 

Eventually I found myself speaking to Sir Domi¬ 
nic’s secretary. 

“I am very sorry to learn what has happened, Mr. 
Sugden. May I speak to Mrs. Mack?” 

“She is not here. She had to leave us a week ago.” 

“Leave you? Do you mean that she did not intend 
to come back?” 

“Oh, no! As far as I am aware she certainly 
meant to come back. It was only that a relative was 
suddenly taken ill—her aunt, the Countess of Wren- 
ford.” 

Aunt Betsey ill! What on earth- 

“I wish Mrs. Mack were here now,” concluded 
Sugden with fervour. 

“Is she at Markhamsted Hall, then?” 

“I presume so. Her letters are being sent there.” 

I hung up, asked for St. Albans 20, and a few 
minutes later was talking to Aunt Betsey’s maid. 
Aunt Betsey was in her usual health, and Nesta had 
not been there. 

“We were expecting her to-day, Mr. Richard. But 



THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 307 


there was a telegram this morning to say she would 
not arrive until to-morrow.” 

“Where was the telegram from?” 

“I don’t know, sir. Shall I ask her ladyship?” 
“Please.” 

An interval while Mrs. Marsland, a brevet “Mrs.’ 
by reason of long service, trots off to Aunt Betsey 


and returns. 

“Hammersmith, sir. Her ladyship had a letter 
last week from some address in Hammersmith, but 
has not kept it.” 

It had occurred to me that Nesta might be with 
Mrs. Mountjoy. I suspected that there had been 
trouble before she left the Towers, though Sugden 
evidently knew nothing of it. 

I rang up Mrs. Mountjoy’s flat. Nesta answered. 

“Dick speaking. Have you heard the news about 
Sir Dominic?” 

“No. What news? How did you know I was 


“Marsland. The news is bad.” I told her what 
it was. 

After a time, she said: “It must have been his 
heart. Oh, poor Elena!” 

“Can I do anything for you?” 

“No, I don’t think so. I will get through on the 
telephone, and see if Elena will let me come and stay 
with her.” 

The first thing I saw on opening my paper next 
morning was that when the car arrived Sir Dominic’s 
neck was broken. “The circumstances point to death 
by violence, but the affair is at present a mystery. 


308 


MORRY 


Even in my dismay I could not help noticing the 
irony of the cautious phraseology. When a man’s 
neck is broken, the circumstances may certainly be 
said to “point to death by violence.” I read on. At 
the end of a half-column eulogy of the dead man’s 
services to industry and art was an allusion to his 
recent visit to Milan. 

I began to think. His life had been attempted 
there. Why not here? I also reflected that the delay 
in getting the Towers the night before was accounted 
for; the police had been listening in. 

I rang up Mrs. Mountjoy. She told me that Nesta 
had gone to Borlington. 

The inquest resulted in a verdict of murder by 
some person or persons unknown. Sir Dominic had 
gone on the Sunday afternoon to visit his friend Lord 
Thurton at Plumpsfield, twenty-four miles away. He 
left there a little before six. Sugden deposed to 
finding his body in the car on its arrival at Borling¬ 
ton. He did not think that a robbery had been com¬ 
mitted. There was no sign of a struggle. Perrin, the 
chauffeur, said that on the return journey the engine 
failed just outside Storborough, ten miles from the 
Towers. He got down, investigated, and found that 
the feed-pipe from the petrol-tank to the carburettor 
was blocked. The piece of wire which he usually 
carried in his locker was not there, so, after explain¬ 
ing matters to Sir Dominic, he walked into Stor¬ 
borough and procured a piece from the blacksmith. 
There was no one about either when he left or when 
he returned. He removed the obstruction in the feed¬ 
pipe, and went on. He “thought he saw” Sir Domi- 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 309 


nic sitting up in the car when he came back to it, 
and was positive that he saw him later, just before 
they passed Storborough church. He also said, in 
reply to a question from the coroner, that he was 
certain no one boarded the car while it was running. 

An inspector of police was called next. He said 
that information in the possession of the police con¬ 
firmed the evidence of the last witness. This puzzled 
me, because Perrin’s evidence w T as contradictory. If 
the car did not stop anywhere else, and no one 
boarded it while it was running, Sir Dominic must 
have been murdered while it was standing outside 
Storborough, and Perrin could not have seen him alive 
after. I remembered Perrin—he had driven me to 
and from the station—as a quiet fellow, civil-man¬ 
nered without servility. Nesta had spoken highly of 

The next day a Press campaign began. Several 
recent murders had not been cleared up, and the 
wealth and position of this new victim ensured an 
appetite on die part of the public. It was taken for 
granted that Sir Dominic had been murdered while 
Perrin was away, and the suggestions were that the 
crime had been committed by Communist emissaries 
from Italy; by a passing tramp, frightened into hid¬ 
ing by Perrin’s return before he had time to rob; 
or by a gang, as the result of a plot; or by some 
angry picture dealer, an attempted fraud on whose 
part Sir Dominic had prevented. 

The door-bell rang. I went to the door. Nesta 

stood outside. 

“Come in,” 


310 


MORRY 


It was dark in the hall. We went into the sitting- 
room. Then I saw that her face was white and 
drawn, as if she had not slept all night, and that there 
was a queer flicker in her eyes. 

“When did you leave Borlington?” 

“This morning. I have just arrived.” 

“Had any breakfast?” 

“I had something before I left.” 

By this I knew she hadn’t. I rang the bell, and 
ordered some tea and toast and a boiled egg I 
forbore to question her, even when she sat on in 
silence after she had finished the little meal. Sud¬ 
denly she blurted out: 

“I have been accused of having a hand in the 
murder.” 

I was startled. 

“By whom?” 

“Elena.” 

I recovered myself. 

“But, my dear girl, you know what she is-” 

“The police have got the idea too. They questioned 
me on Tuesday in a general way. I thought nothing 
of that. But yesterday they came again, and it was 
clear that they suspected me. They even wanted to 
know where I was on Sunday.” 

I laughed. “Good old county constabulary! Why, 
what possible motive could you have for anything so 
abominable?” 

“More than you know of. I want to tell you.” 

I did not take this very seriously, but it was evident 
that she did. “Go on.” 

“After Pat died, Sir Dominic offered to marry me 



THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 311 


because he thought it wouldn’t be proper for me to 
stay on when there was no Pat to make things right 
in the eyes of Mrs. Grundy. I refused.” 

“Didn’t he know that you were not free to marry?” 

“Pat knew, so he would know, of course. But he 
would also know what you told me when Don re¬ 
married, that I could free myself whenever I chose.” 

“Quite so.” 

“He did not mention the matter to me again; but he 
sounded Elena about it, without telling her that he 
had already spoken to me. She was very much 
against it. In her eyes it was a ridiculous, almost 
improper notion. So, I suppose, Sir Dominic gave 
it up because he saw that it would create a breach 
between Elena and me. But he added a codicil to his 
will leaving me five thousand pounds. He told me of 
this in Leonard’s presence. He did not hint that 
it was compensation, of course; he merely said that 
it would not affect any member of the family; all 
the difference it would make would be that the gal¬ 
leries would have less money to buy bad pictures 
with. Leonard was very kind about it, so I just 
thanked them both, and said I hoped it would be a 
long time before I received my legacy.” 

“Was Elena there?” 

“No. Sir Dominic had not asked her to be present. 
By that I thought he wished me not to say anything 
about it. I still think that was what he wished.” 

“Probably it was.” 

“I believe all this trouble for me now would have 
been avoided if I had told her. Isn’t it extraordinary 
how one does things from quite good motives and 


312 


MORRY 


people look on you as a criminal when it goes 
wrong?” 

“That’s only a fit of middle age attacking you.” 

Nesta smiled faintly. “Now as to why I left.” 
Bright patches appeared in her cheeks. “You remem¬ 
ber Tony, don’t you?” 

“Of course. I’ve seen him twice—the last time I 
was at the Towers, and when I had tea with you in 
Piccadilly.” 

“Did you know, when you were at the Towers, that 
he had not been in Sir Dominic’s good books for 
some time?” 

“No.” 

“We had not seen him since the Gearless Car 
Company went into liquidation. Sir Dominic was 
angry because Tony had incurred liabilities he could 
not meet. Tony tried to be independent; he said he 
would go bankrupt. That made Sir Dominic angrier 
still. It was silly of Tony to say it, because his name 
is Scaferlati, and of course Sir Don\inic could not 
allow it to be dragged through the court. There was 
a bad quarrel. However, just before you came down 
I succeeded in making peace. I pointed out to Sir 
Dominic that it wasn’t as if Tony got into debt through 
extravagance. He was simply over enthusiastic about 
motor-cars and new inventions. Sir Dominic said 
that was all very well, but Tony had thrown up a 
good position in the firm to go wild-goose chasing 
at his expense. I pleaded that Tony was only twenty- 
four, and finally Sir Dominic said: ‘Very well, let 
him come back to the business. He shall do what he 
likes in reason, but he must settle down. I hope he 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 313 


and Elena will marry.’ I hadn’t heard of that 
project before.” 

“Did Elena know of it?” I asked because of some¬ 
thing I had observed at the tea-party. 

“No. Sir Dominic told me to say nothing to her. 
He did not wish to force her at all.” 

“Was he forcing Tony?” 

“Not exactly. Tony says now that he liked Elena 
all right, and he wasn’t in love with anyone else 

then-” 

“Oh!” 

Nesta hurried on: “-so he didn’t mind. Con¬ 

sequently he came frequently after that, and when I 
took Elena to town he generally met us. What hap¬ 
pened wasn’t my fault. But-” 

“The boy fell in love with you.” 

“Dick!” 

“I saw it at the Mimosa Tea Rooms.” 

“Honest Injun, I never knew until Elena attacked 
me about it. She had been queer with me before— 
I didn’t know why at the time, but now I know it was 
because Sir Dominic had talked about marrying me. 
She had got over that, but when she saw that Tony 
was falling in love with me, her jealousy blazed 
up again. She put things together in her peculiar 
way, and made me out an adventuress.” 

Tears started in Nesta’s eyes, and I realised how 
bitter her humiliation must have been. “Cheer up, 
old thing. It’s a nightmare you are living through.” 

“I told her that I could not stay if she thought such 
things of me. But I was unwilling to be the cause 
of fresh trouble between Tony and Sir Dominic, and 





314 


MORRY 


I thought there might be trouble if she went to her 
grandfather with that tale. So I said, if she would 
promise not to tell Sir Dominic, I would make an 
excuse for leaving temporarily and not come back. 
It never occurred to me that if Sir Dominic had been 
told, and had taken the same view as Elena did—that 
I must have encouraged Tony—he might have can¬ 
celled my legacy. I did not think of that.” 

“You wouldn’t. Is Elena in love with Tony?” 

“No. She thinks she is in love with a boy who lives 
at Borlington.—She promised to say nothing to Sir 
Dominic, and I told a fib about Aunt Betsey being ill 
and departed. I meant to stay for a day or two with 
Alice, and then go to Markhamsted. I wanted to have 
a talk with Tony.” 

“Risky, wasn’t it?” 

“I had to put him on his guard. I could not leave 
him to go down to the Towers at the week-end in 
ignorance of what had happened.” 

That seemed reasonable. 

“As soon as I told him I had left the Towers, he 
guessed why, and said all sorts of things about Elena 
—that she was a vile-tempered little cat, and he 
wouldn’t have anything to do with her if she were 
the last woman in the world. And—he wanted 
me to marry him. I said that was out of the 
question.” 

“Naturally.” I am afraid my tone was dry. 

“Don’t be sarcastic. I told him that the difference 
in our ages made it impossible, but you needn’t be 
horrid about it.” 

“Get on to why you didn’t go to Markhamsted.” 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 315 

“He persuaded me to stay in London over the end 
of the week.” 

I said nothing, but I suppose 64 You idiot! must 
have been written on my face. Nesta whimpered. 

64 I can’t go on if you are horrid, Dick. I know 
it was silly of me, but don’t you see that the situation 
was difficult to handle? Tony thought I had been 
badly treated. He wanted to go to Sir Dominic and 
protest. That was just what I didn’t want him to do, 
for his own sake. I had the greatest difficulty in 
pacifying him, and when he pleaded for just the 
rest of that week—the evenings, and Saturday after¬ 
noon, and Sunday—how could I refuse? He prom¬ 
ised not to pester me about marrying him. He 
accepted the fact that we could never be anything but 

pals.” i 

It was not difficult to guess what lay behind this. 
Since the separation from her nominal husband, Nesta 
must have had to limit herself strictly as to even the 
most innocent good times where men were concerned, 
just because she was a charming and attractive woman. 
Scaferlati was an honourable young fellow, and no 
doubt Nesta had been feeling woebegone at being 
uprooted again. It had been a mild escapade, with 
perhaps just a dash of feminine spite in it—justi¬ 
fiable, in view of Elena’s dog-in-the-mangerishness. 

“Did you see him every day, then?” 

“Yes. And—on Sunday we went out in his 

car.” 

“What about it?” 

“We went to Hensham.” 

Her interlocked hands were twisting backwards and 


316 


MORRY 


forwards, and the fear in her eyes leapt at me like a 
wolf. Hensham is only twenty miles from Stor- 
borough. 

“What time did you leave?” 

“Between five and six.” 

I was perturbed by the coincidence. “That would 
explain the police suspecting you.” 

“But they don’t know.” 

“You said they asked where you were on the 
Sunday.” 

“I told them I didn’t go out.” 

“Cockles! Whatever possessed you?” 

“What else could I say? They mustn’t know-” 

Terror mastered her. She clung to my hand, 
begged me sobbingly to help her to get away and 
hide. It was some time before I could induce her 
to tell me what had happened. 

Arriving at the Towers on the Monday evening, she 
had been received by Elena with tears and apologies. 
The girl had professed to be ashamed of her previous 
outbreak, had confessed that it was solely due to 
jealousy—jealousy, not on Scaferlati’s account, but 
of a general kind. 

“She said she had always envied me for my beauty 
and charm, she didn’t care for Tony, I could marry 
him if I wanted to. I said I didn’t want to. We were 
the best of friends until she learned that Sir Dominic 
had left me a legacy. Then she suddenly veered 
round again. I had deliberately concealed it from 
her; I had bluffed her into keeping from Sir Dominic 
the fact that Tony was in love with me for fear 
I should lose the money; I was madly in love with 



THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 317 

Tony, and we knew that if Sir Dominic learned of 
it he would cut us out of his will—Tony is down for 
a hundred thousand: So we had bribed Perrin to keep 
us informed of his movements, waylaid him at Stor- 
borough, and killed him.” 

I thought at first that the diabolical ingenuity with 
which Elena had fitted the facts together had shaken 
Nesta’s nerve; but I discovered that there was more 
to account for her collapse than that the long days 
spent in court when her best friend had been on trial 

for fraud. _ r , 

The slow, sure grinding of Mariette Vochlear 
between the upper and the nether millstone had 
filled Nesta with a profound horror. She would never 
be tried; if this accusation were persisted in, if she 
were arrested, she would kill herself somehow. The 
knowledge that she was innocent, that her innocence 
could almost certainly be proved in the end, was no 
comfort. 

I reasoned with her. 

“The police may have been to Scaferlati, and it 
so, he would tell them.” 

“No, he wouldn’t. I telephoned to him immedi¬ 
ately, and told him not to.” 

“My dear girl! Don’t you know that under such 
circumstances someone always listens in? The police 
know all about it now-” 

Nesta fainted. 

“You must be brave.” I had arranged for her to 
go back to Mrs. Mountjoy’s, and that I should see 
Scaferlati and obtain his permission to communicate 
the facts to the police. 



318 


MORRY 


“All right, Dick. You’ll come and see me in 
prison, won’t you?” She tried to smile. 

Arrived at the palatial offices of Scaferlati & Sons, 
I asked for Mr. Anthony Scaferlati. I was shown into 
his room. He greeted me in the most friendly style. 

“I’m glad you’ve come. Has Nesta told you of 
Elena’s latest lunacy?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s your opinion? I don’t like this keeping 
quiet about Sunday.” 

My heart warmed to him. “I only want your con¬ 
sent to go to Scotland Yard.” 

“By all means. I’ll come with you.” 

On the way he talked first about his grandfather 
and then about Nesta. 

“You knew her as a kid, didn’t you?” 

I said we were brought up together. 

“Yes, she calls you her big brother. I say, doesn’t 
she look ripping when she puts her head on one 
side and laughs? She ought to have her portrait 
painted like that.” 

I did not tell him of her husband’s picture. Youth 
should not be saddened by knowing over what dusty 
ghosts middle age must tread its downhill path. 

Scotland Yard received us with chilling indiffer¬ 
ence. The party to whom we ought to give the in¬ 
formation was the Chief Constable of Wessex. He 
had the affair in hand. 

I knew, from the newspapers, that the Chief Con¬ 
stable of Wessex had only recently been appointed, 
and that his name was Quoyle. It is not a common 
name, and, some years before, I had rendered assist- 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 319 


ance to the Yard in a case which had been handled 
by a Superintendent Quoyle. I inquired whether 
they were related. 

“The same man.” 

I persuaded Scaferlati to let me go to Redminster 
alone. He gave me the number and description of 
the car, and the route taken on the return journey. 
They had gone eastward after leaving Hensham, and 
Storborough lies to the west; but there was nothing 
to prove which way they had gone, unless the car 
could be traced, and they had not reached town until 
nine oclock. 

I went to Redminster by the next train. When I 
was ushered into the presence, the Chief Constable 
looked at me in silence. He was an oldish man, with 
an impassive face but readable eyes. I stated my 
errand, excusing Nesta for having made the misstate¬ 
ment on the plea that she was nervous after being 
directly accused of participation in the crime. I 
gave him the particulars as to the car and its itinerary 
on the Sunday. I said that I had taken no steps to 
have the latter verified; I should prefer to leave that 
in the first place to him. 

“Quite right. This is what I should have expected 
from you.” He glanced at the paper, and looked up 
again. “Warn your cousin, Mr. Youatt, that she must 
not leave Lichfield Mansions without letting us know 
where she is going.” 

I said I would. 

“And if we want any further information Irom her, 
she must answer truthfully.” 

“She will do that.” 


320 


MORRY 


I thought he was going to say something more. As 
he didn’t, I ventured to congratulate him on the 
appointment he had secured. 

“Yes,” he replied in an absent-minded tone. “I’d 
got about as high as I could in the Yard, and I thought 
this would be a nice easy job for my old age. They 
generally have a retired military man—God knows 
why. I hope I shall be able to justify the county 
authorities in choosing a policeman to do a police¬ 
man’s work, instead of a soldier.” 

I remarked that there was no doubt about that, and 
asked: “If, as the result of the inquiries you make, 
Mrs. Mack is cleared, will you let me know?” 

He promised to do so. 

I told Nesta, when I went to see her in the evening, 
that the matter could not be in better hands. Quoyle 
was a cautious fellow, not in the least likely to make 
a mistake. This heartened her, and for a week she 
kept fairly cheerful. Then the strain began to tell. 
The newspapers were full of the Borlington mystery, 
and she read everything that was printed. She began 
to brood over it, to allow it to obsess her. Came 
the inevitable suggestion that there might be a woman 
at the bottom of the affair: Nesta thought she was 
aimed at, and it drove her nearly frantic. She ceased 
to sleep at all, grew haggard; her eyes were dreadful. 

I went to Redminster again. 

“What is it now, Mr. Youatt?” Quoyle looked 
worried. 

I reminded him of his promise, and said that Nesta 
was suffering pretty badly. “If she is still under 
suspicion, she is best where she is. If not, I should 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 321 

like to get her away. I thought you might have 
forgotten.” 

He replied: “I had forgotten. But I suspect her 
as much as I suspect anybody.” 

My heart sank. I was seriously afraid that JNesta 
would go out of her mind. “Couldn’t you trace the 

car?” , .. 

Quoyle eyed me morosely. 6 Have you and Mrs. 

Mack discussed the crime?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did she ever hint that Perrin may know more than 
he pretends to?” 

“Never. On the contrary, when I suggested that 
his evidence at the inquest seemed contradictory, she 
said she was certain he had spoken the truth. 

“What’s your view?” „ 

“After hearing what she says, the same as hers. 
Quoyle seemed to reflect. Then he saM abruptly. 
“Mr. Youatt, you are a sensible man. I’ll put the 
position to you. Keep your mouth shut outside. I 
know you can.”—He had the best of reasons for 
knowing that.—“I’m like a dog chasing his tail. How 
was the murder done, if Perrin wasn’t m it.^ 

“While the car was standing and he away. 

“No, it wasn’t. That is one thing we do know. No 
one went near that car while it was standing but 
Perrin himself.” 

I wondered how he knew. 

“We thought at first someone might have jumped 
on the footboard while the car was moving. Since, 
we’ve proved by experiment that it couldn t have hap¬ 
pened without Perrin knowing. Now do you get me. 


322 


MORRY 


If Perrin wasn’t in it—and we don’t think he was; 
we should have arrested him if we had —how was it 
done? The car didn’t stop anywhere else.” 

I could offer no suggestion. 

The Chief Constable of Wessex was eclipsed for a 
moment while Ex-Police Constable Quoyle relieved his 
feelings. 

“Shall I tell you what I think? The crime was 
committed by a ruddy monkey hanging by his tail 
from heaven. It must have been, because in no other 
way could it be done.” 

An idea came to me.—“Would you accept help?” 

‘‘Whose?” 

“Never mind whose, for the moment. Not mine. 
But I might be able to get you the best kind of help.” 

Quoyle weighed this. I had helped him before. 

“Unofficial?” 

“Certainly.” 

“It would have to be strictly unofficial. Tell me 
the name.” 

“Sir Maurice Abramson.” 

“Um.” Quoyle stared at me. “Would he?” 

“I think so.” 

“Who’s to pay him?” 

“He would not expect to be paid.” 

“Then why should he do it?” 

The eyes were distrustful. It would be best to 
admit- 

“He knew Mrs. Mack as a child.” 

Quoyle shook his head. “Then his object would be 
to clear her.” 

I said that was not so. I proposed that all the evi- 



THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 323 

dence, including what was known only to the police, 
should be submitted to Morry with a view to seeing 
whether he could hit on an explanation. 

“Frame your own questions, Mr. Quoyle, and 1 
will put them to him as the object of the suggested 
inquiry. If he agrees to hold it, you may be sure 
that he will answer them to the best of his ability. 

Quoyle became thoughtful again. Well, I don t 
know that it would do me any harm with the people 
here. Would he want to come down?” 

I said I did not think so. “He would be more 
likely to ask you to go up to town.” , 

“Very well. I’m at my wits’ end, and they can t 
help me at the Yard. The papers have been making 
a song because I haven’t had Yard men down here. 
What’s the use? I can get the facts—I have got 
them. And on the facts the Yard are just as much 
stumped as I am. Ask Sir Maurice if he 11 help us. 

I leave it to you how to put it to him. 

I went back to London with a considerably lighter 
heart than I had had on the way down. Shrouded in 
obscurity as the affair was even to the trained minds 
at Scotland Yard, the razor-brain might shear through 

^Vfound Morry at his chambers. He rarely left 
them now in working hours, unless it was to argue 
some important appeal before the Lords; his days 
were spent in laying down the law as to weighty an 
complicated problems which reached him from all 
parts of the empire. I told him the whole story, 
beginning with Nesta’s confidence to me and ending 
with my unofficial mission. He asked one question. 


324 


MORRY 


“Where is Mrs. Mack staying?” 

I told him. 

“I will let you know later whether I can do what 
your friend the Chief Constable wants.” 

He rang me up in the evening. 

“I imagine Sunday will be the most convenient day 
for everyone. Very well. I will communicate 
with the Chief Constable in regard to the official wit¬ 
nesses. See Mr. Althrop, and ask if he will allow 
Sugden and the chauffeur to come to my house at 
ten o’clock. Can you secure an expert driver of 
motor-cars?” 

I said I could. 

“I think we should have a surgical expert, too. 
Er—bones. Can you suggest anyone?” 

“Menzies-Brown,?” 

“Do you know him?” 

“The Fullars do, and I have met him at their house. 
I think Harding Fullar will get him for me.” 

“He would be excellent. Let me see. The doctor 
who examined the body on the Sunday night. He 
made the post-mortem too, didn’t he? Yes. Prob¬ 
ably he is the regular medical attendant at the 
Towers. Ask Althrop about him. Er—the car. We 
should have the car. I shall want a map.” 

Morry on his job! 

When I told Nesta what had been arranged, she 
looked at me with half-crazy eyes and said nothing. 
I felt sure that Morry had asked her consent, and 
knew that to give it must have involved a sacrifice 
of pride. She had never mentioned his name since 
that day at Markhamsted, and when it was mentioned 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 325 


in her hearing, her mouth had taken on a hard line. 
This must be the lowest depth of humiliation for her; 
but it could not be helped. 

I was kept busy for the remainder of the week. 
All sorts of things had to be done. Securing the 
experts gave me most trouble. Menzies-Brown, the 
osteologist, had operations to perform on the Sunday 
morning. Fullar tried one or two other men, and I 
did my best, but we could not get anyone. Ultimately, 
Menzies-Brown was persuaded to let his patients wait 
till the afternoon. As to the expert in driving, I relied 
on a friend who was well acquainted with the per¬ 
sonalities of the motoring world. Late on the Friday 
afternoon, he told me that he had been unable to 
secure anybody. He offered to come himself, but he 
was not the class of expert required. Morry would 
want someone whose word was the last word. 

I returned to Clifford’s Inn in a depressed state. I 
hate to fail in doing what I have undertaken. I let 
myself in with my latchkey, and went into the sitting- 
room. Straddled on a chair by the window was a 
handsome, dark man, with a curly black moustache, 
like one of Vandyke’s cavaliers. His face was turned 
towards the door when I entered, and there was a gay 

smile on it. TT , 

I nearly fell on his neck. He was Gaston de 
Reumont, a winner of I don’t know how many trophies 
in the great days of motor-racing, when his nickname 
was “Cent-a-l’heure” — “Sixty-miles-an-hour.” He 
drove me at that speed one day over the long straight 
roads of Normandy. Never again. But he was the 
very man I wanted at that moment. 


326 


MORRY 


I confided my difficulty. Would he stay in London 
over next Sunday, morne and triste as it might be? 
I felt that I was asking a great deal. 

“Certainly, mon vieux. I always stay in London 
over a weekend when I can. I adore your Sunday.” 

“Adore it? Why?” 

“It is so quiet. I repose.” 

A sigh of relief. “Then I need no one else as to 
motor-cars.” 

“Tell me of this case. I read something, but not 
much.” 

I told him. 

“There should be an engineering expert present.” 

“You are an engineering expert as to motor-cars.” 
Gaston had been through the shops. 

“I am an expert mechanic. An engineer, no. Also 
it should be someone who knows the car. What make 
was this auto of Sir Dominic’s?” 

I told him. 

“I know nothing of the details of its construction. 
You should persuade someone from the works to 
come if it is possible.” 

It proved unexpectedly easy. The managing-direc¬ 
tor of the company, appealed to by telephone, volun¬ 
teered to come himself. 

On the Sunday I called for Gaston at his hotel, 
and we walked to Regent’s Park. I had rung the bell 
when a taxi drove up with Nesta in it. I went down 
the steps and opened the door. 

There was a hectic brilliance in her eyes and in 
her smile, a brilliance as meretricious as the colour 
on her cheeks; I am bound to say that in each case 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 327 


the imitation was good enough to deceive anyone 
who did not know her well. 

“I asked Duff to let me come. But I shan’t be in 
with you. Jess is going to take care of me.” 

“Duff—Jess.” A week ago, Morry had referred to 
her as “Mrs. Mack,” and she only knew Jess slightly. 

She went up the steps. Gaston took off his hat 
as she passed him, and she bowed. Samuels had 
opened the door; she preceded us into the house. 

“Quelle jolie femme!” whispered Gaston. “Pre- 
sente-moi .” 

I introduced them to each other in the hall. They 
chatted for a few minutes, and Nesta smiled up at 
Gaston with her head tilted. Can man ever hope 
to understand the ways of woman? 

She went upstairs. We remained below, as Morry 
was going to sit in the dining-room, on the ground 
floor. We were presently joined by Quoyle, who 
brought with him a police constable. Next came 
Leonard Althrop with Sugden, Dr. Sarsfield, the 
coroner who had held the inquest, and Dr. Salmon, 
the local man. A minute or two later Perrin came in. 
He recognised me, and saluted. I felt sorry for him. 
His honest face was clouded by perplexity; he, too, 
had been brooding. Shortly afterwards a stranger 
appeared who proved to be Lees, the managing- 
director of the firm that made the car; I introduced 
him to Gaston, and they went out to have a look at 
it. The door was left open, and a minute or two 
later another stranger to me appeared on the steps. 
As Samuels was busy in the dining-room, I brought 
him in. He and Quoyle nodded to each other. 


328 


MORRY 


“Superintendent Blakeley,” said Quoyle to me. 
“Sir Maurice thought it would be as well to have 
someone from the Yard. Blakeley is what you might 
call a specialist in murders.” 

The murder specialist was a fine specimen physi¬ 
cally. I never saw a more powerful-looking man. 

Menzies-Brown arrived, and then another stranger 
—Dr. Meiklejohn, from Newgate Prison. Morry 
appeared as the clock struck ten. He greeted us in a 
manner which made me reflect what a majestic judge 
he would make. I recalled Gaston and Lees, made 
the necessary introductions. Then we went into the 
dining-room and took our places at the table, except 
Sugden, Perrin, and the constable, who remained in 
the hall. 

Morry opened the proceedings by saying that we 
had met in the endeavour to elucidate the circum¬ 
stances connected with the death of Sir Dominic 
Scaferlati. 

“I shall take the following facts as established. He 
died on Sunday the nineteenth of April, between the 
hours of six and seven-thirty p.m., on or near the road 
from Plumpsfield Manor to Borlington Towers. He 
entered his car, the landaulette outside, at the former 
time and place, and was found dead in it at the latter. 
The immediate cause of death was a rupturing of the 
cervical column. 

“First, as to the ways in which that may be caused. 
Mr. Menzies-Brown?” 

Menzies-Brown turned to Dr. Salmon with the 
remark that he would be obliged if Dr. Salmon would 
describe the nature of the injury. Dr. Salmon re- 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 329 

plied that the spinal column was dislocated between 
the sixth and seventh cervical vertebrae.^ 

“No splintering or bruising of bone?” 

“No” . 1 u • u 

66 Any sign of the adjacent muscles having been 
strained in an unusual manner?” 

“No. A clean dislocation.” 

“Then we have only to consider dislocation by con¬ 
cussion. That can result from a jerk, provided the 
body is supported only beneath the chin; or from a 
blow on the back of the neck, or under or on the point 

of the chin.” . . 

“As to the jerk. How can the force requisite to 

produce it be applied?” inquired Morry. 

“In hanging, it results from the body being allowed 
to fall a certain distance. The same effect can be 
obtained in other ways, as by pulling suddenly at 

the feet. Considerable force is necessary. 

“A man can hang himself, of course. Could Sir 
Dominic have hanged himself, or been hanged, m the 
interior of the car? Dr. Meiklejohn? . . , 

Meiklejohn asked Salmon as to Sir Dominies 
height and weight, and Lees as to the space5 availlabte. 
Supplied with these particulars, he said, No. 

“Mr. Menzies-Brown. In regard to the other ways 
of producing the jerk to which you referred. Could 
any of these have been operated in the interior ot the 
car, bearing in mind the information just given* 
Menzies-Brown thought it would be impossible. 
“Then unless we find reason to suppose that Sir 
Dominic quitted the car—I believe we shall find the 
contrary—that finishes with the jerk. As to the blows. 


330 


MORRY 


Mr. Menzies-Brown. Can a man strike himself in 
any of the necessary ways?” 

“No.” 

“He could, of course, cause himself to be so struck, 
but some external force would have to operate?” 

“Yes, unless a special apparatus were constructed.” 

“I see.” Morry made a note. “As to the blow on 
the back of the neck. Would an instrument be 
necessary?” 

Menzies-Brown said it might be done with the edge 
of the hand, provided the neck were extended hori¬ 
zontally. 

“With the subject sitting or standing, could it be 
done with a blow of the fist?” 

Menzies-Brown thought not. The other doctors 
were disposed to agree. 

“But you cannot be sure?” 

It was a question for a highly-skilled boxer. 

Morry looked at me reproachfully. “We ought to 
have had an expert boxer, Dick.” 

Superintendent Blakeley remarked that he had been 
something of a boxer in his younger days, but he could 
not say as to that. 

Morry reflected. “Samuels! Of course, Samuels.” 

“Samuels?” queried the superintendent as if he 
knew the name in connexion with boxing. 

“My butler,” replied Morry affably. 

Samuels came in. Blakeley looked at him, and 
seemed to be amused; he nodded. Samuels, gravely 
dignified, bowed. 

“You know each other?” 

“I had the honour of meeting Mr. Samuels in the 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 331 


ring twice,” replied the superintendent. “I needn’t 
say that he gave me all I wanted, quick. Three 
rounds it was, the second time. 

It dawned upon me that Samuels was the ex-iamous 
middle-weight, “The Gentleman Jew.” How dull 1 
had been! But who would ever have suspected that 
the deferential butler had been a prize-fighter. 

“Samuels. You see Mr. Youatt here, with his back 
to you. Could you dislocate his neck by striking him 
on the back of it?” n 

“I don’t think so. Sir Maurice. 

“Could anyone?” „ 

“I should say not, sir.” , , 

“You are well up in the history of the ring, aren t 


you?” 

“Tolerably well, sir.” . 

“You never read or heard of it happening^ 

“No, sir. I do not think it could happen. 
“Remain for a few minutes, and attend to what 


passes, will you? 

Samuels inclined his head. w 

“As to the blow under the chin 
“On the point of the chin,” corrected Blakeley. 
“In boxing, yes. But”—to Menzies-Brown you 
said that the injury in this case might have been 
caused by a blow under, or on the point ol, the 

Menzies-Brown assented to this, and Blakeley 


aP “The S< blow under the chin. ^ Such a blow could, I 
take it be struck with the fist? 

Menzies-Brown said yes, provided the subject were 


332 MORRY 

in a suitable position—lying down, for instance, with 
the chin elevated. 

“Not if he were standing up?” 

Menzies-Brown hesitated, look at Samuels with a 
slightly comical air. 

“I do not think that it is possible, sir,” said 
Samuels sedately. 

“You should know,” remarked Morry. “Nor, in 
that case, with the subject sitting down. But I take it 
such a blow might be struck with the subject in a 
sitting position, provided an instrument were used.” 

Menzies-Brown said, “Yes.” 

“We must bear that in mind.” Another note. “Now 
as to the blow on the point. That has, we all know, 
been a cause of death in the ring. There is no diffi¬ 
culty about it if the subject is standing up. But could 
it be done with the subject in a sitting position, 
Samuels?” 

“No, Sir Maurice.” 

“Does it require a great deal of force?” 

“If the blow is accurately timed, it does not need 
the weight behind it that would be required to break 
a rib, sir.” 

“What do you mean by timing, precisely?” 

Samuels gave us a beautiful little lecture. The 
impact of a blow, relative to the force utilised, de¬ 
pends upon the degree to which the force is exerted 
progressively; a boxer tries to co-ordinate the putting 
of his strength into the blow with the speed at which 
his fist travels. 

“I see. It comes to this. Provided the force used 
is cumulative, it does not really require a great deal 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 333 

to break a man’s neck.” To Menzies-Brown. “Do 
you agree?” 

“Certainly.” . , _ „ ,, 

“About how much force does it take. Could you 

do it now, Samuels?” 

“Do what, sir?” 

“Break a man’s neck by striking him on the point 

of the chin.” .. , T * 

“I could knock him out, sir, provided I were not 
exhausted by previous fighting. But I do not know 
about breaking his neck.” „ , , 

“You could” said Menzies-Brown; anybody 
• 1 . » 

m Mo’rry asked: “Do you mean that it might happen 
as the result of a blow which in most cases would be 

Menzies-Brown said he did. “It depends entirely 
on the way in which the blow is struck. I should 
describe what is required as a sharp, or staccato 
blow. Our authority on boxmg describes it as prop¬ 
erly timed.’ ” He looked at Samuels with a smile, 
and Samuels bowed. 

Morry considered. “To recur for a moment to 
the blow under the chin. Would you say the same 

r .1 . 9 ?? 

“Provided the direction of the blow is parallel to 

^^With the subject sitting or standing, the direction 
would be vertical?” 

“hwegard to both these blows. Would the force 
required be less in the case of sueh a man as Sir 


334 


MORRY 


Dominic—I refer to his years and physique—than in 
the case of a strong man in the prime of life like 
the superintendent here?” 

The doctors agreed that it would. 

“What is the point of impact at which dislocation 
could be produced with the least force?” 

Menzies-Brown said just under the point of the 
chin, and Morry noted it. 

“Now as to the question of a mark on the skin. 
Would all these blows, however struck, leave a 
mark?” 

The doctor agreed that unless a pad were used, they 
would. 

“What sort of pad?” 

“It would have to be thickish.” 

“Does that negative the conclusion previously 
arrived at in regard to the amount of force necessary? 
If a thick pad were used, would not a very powerful 
blow be required?” 

There was another discussion. The doctors agreed 
that with a pad of some such material as felt, a man’s 
neck might be broken without any great amount of 
force being brought to bear. Menzies-Brown sug¬ 
gested that the human hand would make an admirable 
pad. 

“If a man put his hand over the point of his chin, 
and another man struck him sharply on the hand, 
his neck might go exactly as if the hand were not 
there, but I don’t think there would be any mark.” 

The physicians concurred. 

Morry reflected. “I don’t think I shall require 
further assistance from you, Samuels.”—Samuels 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 335 

retired.— “There was no mark on the body in this 
case, Dr. Salmon?” 

“None anywhere.” 

“Now as to agency. Apart from the possibility 
that Sir Dominic was struck by something exterior 
to the vehicle, as in consequence of putting his head 
out of the window, and assuming that he was killed 
while in the car. The blow on the back of the 
neck might have been produced by an apparatus, or 
by human agency with an instrument The blows 
under and on the point of the chin might have been 
produced by human agency without any apparatus 
or instrument, except a pad of some kind; but we 
must not let it escape us that they could also be pro¬ 
duced by mechanical means.—You wish to say some¬ 
thing, Mr. Quoyle?” 

Ouoyle had shown signs ot dissent. 

“I can’t follow you. Sir Maurice. There was no 
sign of any apparatus, and even if one was used, 
there must have been what you call human agency at 

^‘T do not think we ought to assume that. I con¬ 
ceive that a mechanical apparatus might be devised 
to actuate itself for the purpose. Nor does it follow 
because no apparatus was found dial_ none fun 
tioned. It may have been removed fr ™ ' 

It may have been in the car, concealed, or visible, 
but not recognised for what it was. 

Ouoyle looked dissatisfied. 

“You must trust me,” said Morry He turned to 
the coroner. “I have studied the verbatim report of 
the inquest which you were so kind as to lend me, 


336 


MORRY 


and in considering the evidence I propose to take 
that first. If you will permit me to offer a remark, I 
cannot conceive how such proceedings could be better 
conducted than they were on that occasion.” 

Dr. Sarsfield bowed. 

Morry went through the report, reading some parts 
slowly and with emphasis, skimming others. The first 
part emphasised was the evidence of Lord Thurton. 
“ ‘Sir Dominic refused to stay for dinner because 
he was tired. I pressed him to do so, but he excused 
himself.’” To Althrop: “Does that suggest to you 
that your uncle was unwell?” 

“No. For about a year now he tired easily. He 
was getting very frail.” 

Dr. Salmon put in: “The body only weighed six 
stone twelve pounds. The tissues were wasted almost 
to nothing.” 

Morry went on: “Sir Dominic entered the car, which 
was closed. Lord Thurton says that he is positive 
no one else was in the car then. How does he know 
that? He means, he did not see anyone. Might not 
someone have been hidden under the seat, for in¬ 
stance, Mr. Lees?” 

“No. The seat is fixed.” 

“Thank you. Now for the chauffeur, Perrin. He 
says he drove slowly along the avenue to the lodge- 
gates. At that point we have the evidence of the 
lodge-keeper. He saw Sir Dominic, and saluted him. 
He says there was no one else inside the car, nor 
anyone up behind. Gould anyone get up behind?” 

Lees said, “Yes.” 

“And remain there?” 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 337 


It was possible. “He could hold on to the stays 
of the hood.” 

“Ah! Returning to Perrin’s evidence. In the road, 
he quickened slightly, but as there were a number of 
people about in Plumpsfield village, he kept the speed 
under twenty miles an hour until he was clear of it. 
Then he accelerated to between twenty-two and 
twenty-four miles an hour, and kept it so until the 
engine began to fail outside Storborough. He 
accounts for the speed by saying that his standing 
orders were to let it vary as little as possible: Sir 
Dominic wished the car to run steadily.” 

Morry referred to the map on which I had marked 
the mileage of the journey. 

“My uncle used to say that he did not like being 
bumped,” observed Althrop in the pause. 

“But the place where the car stopped is fourteen 
miles from Plumpsfield. Is it possible to drive for 
fourteen miles without varying the speed more than 
two miles an hour, Monsieur de Reumont?” 

“It is possible to keep within half a mile an hour 
for any distance, unless the road is blocked, replied 
Gaston. 

“You surprise me.” 

Me, too. . 

“Then we have the episode of the stoppage. It is 
an episode fertile in possibilities, but we must beware 
of allowing that to mislead us.” 

Morry read Perrin’s evidence in regard to it, and 
remarked: “There are confirmatory statements which 
we shall come to later. In the meantime let us note 
that Perrin is not certain Sir Dominic was alive and 


338 


MORRY 


unharmed when he returned and removed the obstacle 
in the feed-pipe. He says: ‘I didn’t look at him or 
speak to him because I thought he was most likely 
vexed with me. I ought to have had my wire, and 
not have kept him waiting like that. But I thought I 
saw him sitting up all right.’ Next he comes to an 
incident which, as he says, occurred three or four 
minutes after he started off again. ‘Just before we 
reached Storborough church I looked round, thinking 
Sir Dominic might wish to call on the vicar.’ ” To 
Althrop: “Why should Perrin think that Sir Dominic 
might wish to call on the vicar?” 

“They were cronies. My uncle often drove over 
to the vicarage for a chat, and sometimes dropped 
in when passing.” 

“I see. But on a Sunday evening, at about seven, 
the vicar would be in church, would he not?” 

“No. There is an afternoon service at Storborough 
instead of an evening one. Perrin would know that.” 

“Ah!—‘Sir Dominic shook his head, and I went 
on.’ ” A pause. “Shook his head-” 

“My uncle had a trick of twitching his head side¬ 
ways instead of saying no.” 

“Call Perrin, Dick.” 

I summoned the chauffeur. 

“You said at the inquest that when you looked back 
at Sir Dominic before passing Storborough vicarage, 
he shook his head at you. Is that strictly accurate? 
Did he shake it?” 

“It’s as near as I can get to it, sir. He shook it 
like he always did.” 

“How? Show us.” 



THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 339 


The chauffeur jerked his head a trifle to the left 
and back again. 

6 ‘Thank you. That will do for the present.” 

Perrin retired. 

“It occurred to me,” explained Morry, “that if Sir 
Dominic had been killed during the stoppage, and 
left sitting up, his head, being loose, might have been 
lolling, and deceived Perrin in the dusk. But, be¬ 
tween you, you have put that thought out of the 
question.” 

Quoyle’s eyes were shining. He admired that bit. 

“After this, Perrin says, the speed was steady until 
he reached the entrance gates of the Towers. He over¬ 
took two traps on the way, both belonging to local 
residents whom he knew.—Those persons came for¬ 
ward of their own accord and confirmed this. I 
gather that no suspicion attaches to them?” 

Quoyle replied: “They’re out of the question.” 

“Nothing else happened, according to Perrin, until 
he drew up before the front door of the Towers. He 
saw Mr. Sugden on the steps, therefore he did not look 
round or make any attempt to get down. He knew 
Mr. Sugden would open the door, and there was 
nothing to be taken out of the car. Sir Dominic^ did 
not require assistance. Is that so, Mr. Althrop? 

“Yes. He disliked help being offered. He was 
quite active.” 

“In spite of his lameness?” 

“The lameness was only due to one leg being a 
trifle shorter than the other.” 

Dr. Salmon said: “Half an inch.” 

“I see. Therefore, Perrin says, he did not turn 


340 


MORRY 


his head until Mr. Sugden called to him. Now we 
will take Mr. Sugden’s evidence. He says he did 
not see Sir Dominic in the car as it drew up. He 
looked in, and saw the upper part of the body lying 
sideways on the seat, the head resting against the side 
of the car; the legs were tilted. Sir Dominic’s hat 
was still on his head; his stick had fallen to the floor. 
Er—the stick-” 

“I have it,” said Quoyle. He lifted it on to the 
table. 

“Ah. We may want to look at it later.—Sugden 
thought Sir Dominic had fainted. He called to Perrin 
and opened the door. He and Perrin lifted the body, 
and then they perceived that the neck was broken. 
The body was not noticeably cold.” 

A silence. 

“Now let us take the information in the possession 
of the police, apart from that as to Perrin’s character, 
which we will deal with later. First, there is the 
investigation made the same night by the constable 
at Borlington.” Morry looked at Quoyle and re¬ 
marked: “An intelligent officer, eh?” 

Quoyle nodded. 

“He was summoned to the Towers, and went there 
on his bicycle. Perrin gave him an account of the 
journey which tallies with the one he gave at the 
inquest, except that he does not appear to have told 
the constable that he had seen Sir Dominic alive after 
the stop. The constable, therefore, had every reason 
to suppose that Sir Dominic must have been killed 
during the stop. He saw the importance of examin¬ 
ing the place with as little delay as possible, but he 



THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 341 


also saw that Perrin might not be telling the truth 
when he said that he had not stopped anywhere else. 
He refused Sugden’s offer to let Perrin drive him; 
he did not make use of his bicycle. He took the 
acetylene lamp from it, and set off on foot, scrutinis¬ 
ing the tracks of the car as he went along.” 

“The dickens he did!” came explosively from 
Althrop. 

“The car, by a happy chance, had tyres with a 
pronounced zigzag pattern in the tread, and two of 
them were nearly new. The surface of the road had 
been softened by the rain. The conditions were thus 
almost ideal for the purpose. The constable makes 
some definite assertions. He says that the car stopped 
in the exact place indicated by Perrin, and that it 
did not stop afterwards. Could he tell, Monsieur de 
Reumont?” 

“I think he might from the marks. It makes a 
difference where you stop.” 

“A blur,” said Quoyle, and Gaston thanked him for 
the word. 

“He goes further. He says the car remained in 
that place for some time.” 

“He may think so from the depth of the marks 
just there. But that is guessing.” 

Quoyle shook his head. „ 

“I do not believe that it is possible to be sure, 
protested Gaston. 

Quoyle was amused. “Cramp learned how through 
being put on traps. A knowing sportsman will often 
spot the trap, run near through, and then pull up. 
He’ll be waved to go on, because if he stops there 


342 


MORRY 


he’s advertising the trap; but sometimes he thinks 
there may be a catch in it, and remains where he is 
long enough to be safe. Cramp, sitting behind the 
hedge with a stop-watch, used to occupy himself be¬ 
tween whiles by studying the marks. He got to 
see the difference between a pull-up-and-off and a 
longish stop. You don’t have police-traps on your 
side of the Channel, I believe, Mossyour dee Roo- 
mong.” 

“Dieu merci , no!” said “Cent-a-l’heure.” 

Morry went on. “Now as to other indications. 
The constable says the tracks ran straight in the 
middle of the road except where the vehicles were 
passed. He ‘did not observe any suspicious foot¬ 
prints.’ We must ask him what he means by that. 
At the place where the car stopped he examined the 
whole of the road with particular care. He found 
Perrin’s footmarks, and they accorded with his state¬ 
ment that he jumped out, investigated, and so on. 
The constable also found the footprints of a child 
who had passed on the other side of the road. We 
will take next the blacksmith at Storborough. He 
testified that Perrin did come for a piece of wire, 
and, incidentally, that there was nothing out of the 
way in his demeanour. 

“Now for the child whose footprints Cramp ob¬ 
served—Alice Raisin, eight years of age. She lives 
at the first house in Storborough village, about four 
hundred yards from where the car stopped, and she 
says that as she was coming home from her uncle’s 
farm on the Sunday evening she saw a motor-car, 
standing, ‘before she came to the fork in the road’— 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 343 


that is the place indicated by the other evidence. She 
describes it as ‘grey, with a black top. That is 
correct, I think? She ‘didn’t see the driver, but a 
few minutes later, close to her home, she met a man 
in cap and overcoat, with a wire in his hand. To 
Quoyle: “Did you see this child yourself?” 

“Yes. A smart little kid.” 

“Did it occur to you to ask whether she noticed 
if there was anyone up behind the car? 

“No, but she would have said so if there had been. 
The back of the car was towards her as she came 


along.” # 

“You think her powers of observation are to be 

relied on to that extent?” 

“Yes, I do. Country kids take notice more than 

town kids.” 

“I believe that is so. Then that concludes the 
evidence, except that the passing of the car was ob¬ 
served at a number of points, and all the witnesses 
say it was closed. 

“Dr. Salmon. You said at the inquest that when 
you arrived at the Towers and examined the body, 
rigor mortis had set in. Perrin and Sugden said 
that when they lifted the body out of the car it was 
not cold. Can you form any opinion as to when 
death took place?” 

“I should imagine within half an hour of the arrival 
of the car. It is impossible to say precisely.” 

“Quite so. But, allowing for the fact that it must 
have taken Perrin at least a quarter of an hour to 
get his piece of wire, the probability is that death 
took place after, rather than before, the stop? 


344 


MORRY 


“I think so.” 

“Now we come to the problem.” Morry turned to 
Quoyle. “I dealt with the question of agency in 
what may have appeared to you a pedantic manner 
because, when I first read the evidence, it seemed to 
me that there was a pitfall. In the majority of 
similar cases it would be safe to take for granted 
that there must have been a human agency operating 
at the time; working on that assumption the facts 
could be explained without exceptional difficulty. 
But in this case it was obvious that the facts could 
not be explained without exceptional difficulty; other¬ 
wise, you would have needed no help. Therefore, as 
I put it to myself, the door must be kept open.” 

“I see now, Sir Maurice.” 

“ Human agency is, however, the most probable 
explanation. We will take it first. As to Perrin. 
He is the person on whom suspicion would naturally 
fall, because, on his own evidence, he was pres¬ 
ent, and there is no evidence that anyone else was. 
He professes to have no idea how Sir Dominic came 
by his death. Ought we to accept that? First, let 
us observe that everything in Perrin’s evidence which 
can be tested has been tested, and at every point his 
evidence is confirmed. Next as to his character. It 
could not be better. You have testified as to that.” 
This was to Althrop. 

“I am certain he has told all he knows,” said 
Althrop. “He is as much puzzled as any of us. I 
wish I had heard before about that policeman track¬ 
ing the car. It would have comforted Perrin im¬ 
mensely.” 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 345 


“No doubt Mr. Quoyle had his reasons for keeping 
it secret. Dr. Sarsfield. You examined Perrin at 
the inquest. What impression did he make on you?’’ 
“He seemed to be giving his evidence honestly. 
Morry turned to Quoyle. “You have had him 


before you?” „ 

“Several times. I can’t get any more out of him. 
“Let us have Mr. Sugden in.” 

I summoned Sugden. 

He said he did not notice Perrin particularly as 
the car came up because he had no reason to do so. 
Perrin seemed to be taken by surprise when he, Sug¬ 
den, shouted to him that Sir Dominic had fainted. 
When the body had been carried into the house, and 
Doctor Salmon telephoned for, Perrin told him all 
about the run and the stoppage. Perrin seemed to 
be perplexed—more puzzled than perturbed, Sugden 
thought. He was perturbed too, of course. 

“On his own account?” 

“No, I don’t think so. He was upset because Sir 
Dominic was dead, but I don’t think, from his man¬ 
ner, it occurred to him then that he might be suspected 
of having a hand in it, any more than it occurred to 

me I might.” , 

“You say he told you all about the run. Did he 
mention having seen Sir Dominic as they passed 

Storborough church?” .. r , 

“No. He didn’t remember that until after the 

policeman had been and gone. . 

“Have you had opportunities of observing his de¬ 
meanour since?” „ 

“Certainly. I have seen him every day. 


346 


MORRY 


“How would you describe it?” 

“He has just been as usual, except that he is wor¬ 
ried because he thinks the police don’t believe him.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Perrin had no hand in it. Sir Maurice.” 

“I am disposed to agree with you.” 

Sugden went out, and Morry said: “I really am 
disposed to agree with Mr. Sugden. But let us take 
the contrary supposition, and see whither it leads us. 
Did Perrin kill Sir Dominic, and was the crime pre¬ 
meditated? If so, he had no need beforehand for 
an accomplice. When did he do it? To suppose 
that he did it before the stop conflicts with Dr. 
Salmon’s opinion as to when death took place, and 
involves the supposition that he went into Stor- 
borough leaving the body unguarded in the car. Is 
that credible?” 

He addressed Blakeley. The superintendent said 
it wasn’t likely. 

“Then did he do it after he returned with his piece 
of wire? Let us suppose that he did, before the 
car restarted. Is it credible that he would deliber¬ 
ately commit the murder on the spot where the car 
had been standing, when he had met Alice Raisin 
coming from that direction, and for all he knew she 
might have seen Sir Dominic in it, Mr. Blakeley?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Nor I. Mr. Quoyle obviously agrees with us. 
Every reasonable person would, I imagine. Then 
did Perrin kill his employer without premeditation, 
as the result of a quarrel or dispute, before he went 
on? That involves the supposition that he drove off 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 347 


with the body and went straight home as if nothing 
had happened; because the time at which he called 
at the blacksmith’s, and the time of his arrival at 
the Towers, preclude any delay. We must take into 
account his demeanour on arrival, and the fact that 
he volunteered a statement to Mr. Sugden which, on 
his assumption, would imply that he gave away the 
place where he had committed the crime. Is that 
probable?” 

Scotland Yard thought not. 

“Did he kill him after the car restarted? Monsieur 
de Reumont. Could Perrin have left the driving- 
seat without the car running to one side or other of 
the road?” 

“Not for more than a second or two. 

“All you medical gentlemen ride in motor-cars. 
Do you think it possible that the chauffeur could 
break the neck of a passenger inside a landaulette 
without leaving the driving-seat for more than a few 
seconds ?” 

“Assuming that the back is closed?” inquired 
Menzies-Brown. 

“For the moment, yes.” 

There was a discussion. Could Perrin have opened 
one of the windows in the front? Lees said not. 
Was it likely that Sir Dominic had done so? Althrop 
laughed at the idea; his uncle would have told Perrin, 
through the tube, to stop and do it. Ultimately, 
Morry’s question was answered in the negative. 

“As to the car being closed. The little girl s 
evidence is that it was closed during the stop, it 
was closed a few minutes after it started again—it 


348 


MORRY 


was seen before it reached Storborough church. It 
was closed when it overtook each of the farmers’ 
gigs, and when it arrived at the Towers. Perrin 
could not have opened or closed it without stopping 
the car—Monsieur de Reumont?” 

Gaston said, “No.” 

“Then we must conclude that it was closed all the 
time, and that rules out the possibility that Perrin 
killed Sir Dominic, unless some specially-devised 
apparatus was employed. I will recur to that. Was 
he an accomplice, and the actual killing done by 
someone else? If so, when and how? Mr. Blakeley. 
Would it, in your opinion, be part of a murder plot 
that the speed of the car should merely be reduced?” 

“No. They’d have arranged to stop it.” 

“You do not think it possible that it would be kept 
moving as a precaution against detection?” 

“It doesn’t sound right to me.” 

“Where we know the car stopped, nothing of the 
kind took place, and it did not stop afterwards. 
Therefore, if the car was stopped for the purpose, it 
must have been between Plump sfield and Stor¬ 
borough, which again brings us up against the im¬ 
probabilities that death took place so soon and that 
Perrin walked off and left the car, with the dead 
body in it, unguarded—unless the murderer entered 
the car before the stop and remained in it until 
after. If that were so, where did he leave it? He 
did not get out there. Bearing in mind the improb¬ 
ability that Perrin, returning, and knowing of the 
murder, behaved exactly as if nothing had happened, 
let us take the point as to where the accomplice 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 349 

jumped off. Not, one would think, before Stor- 
borough church was passed, because in the village 
the car was under observation. After that, it entered 
the quiet byroad; but, fortunately, that is precisely 
where the constable’s observations have most value. 
Let us have him in.” 

As I went to the door I heard Morry say to Quoyle: 
“Are you going to reward him?” and I imagine that 
Quoyle nodded, because Morry greeted Cramp with: 

“So you are the man who neglected the obvious 
thing to do—stay and question all the people who 
knew nothing about it—and went off along the dar c 
roads with a bicycle lamp. Give him your chair, 

Dick.” , , , 

I had been sitting on Morry s left. 

“Now let me have a look at you. I expect you 
know that the Chief Constable is angry about it." 

“No, sir. He was good enough to say a word or 
two ” 

“You will hear of it again.”—Constable Cramp 
was very happy.— “Now then. You say in your 
report that you did not notice any suspicious foot¬ 
marks. What do you mean by that. . , 

“As if there’d been a gang, or anybody, hangm 

“Were there no footmarks near the tracks? 

“Not specially. People had bin walkin at the sides 
of the road, and crossin’ it.” 

“We think that after Storborough was passed, 
someone might have jumped off the car and walked 

^Cramp shook his head. “Then his footprints would 


350 


MORRY 


have begun sudden near by the wheelmarks. I saw 
nothin’ the like of that.” 

“Nor any that ceased suddenly, as if someone had 
jumped on?” 

“No, sir.” 

Morry observed to Quoyle: “I think we must 
abandon the idea that anyone entered the car from 
the ground, or quitted it by jumping on to the 
ground,” and I was thinking of Quoyle’s monkey 
from heaven when Morry electrified me by continu¬ 
ing calmly: “It has probably occurred to you that 
it might have been boarded from a vehicle running 
alongside, and quitted in the same way.” 

Quoyle’s eyes were those of a well-trained terrier 
who scents a bagged rat. 

“No, that’s new to me,” he said slowly. 

“Constable. As to other wheelmarks. You only 
mentioned those of the two gigs. Were there no 
others?” 

“Not of vehicles as was passed. There was others 
that come along before or after.” 

“Were there any that ran alongside those of the 
car?” 

“In one place, there was.” 

“Where was that?” 

“Against the church, and half a mile our side. 
Widest part of the road. Another car had come from 
the village, and the tracks ran along Sir Dominic’s.” 

“By josh, I believe you’ve got at it!” exclaimed 
Quoyle. “Cramp-” 

Morry held up his hand in rebuke.—“How near?” 

“A couple of feet. Sometimes closer.” 



THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 351 


A thrill went through me. 

“They never touched?” 

“No. But d’ye see, there’s a reason for that. 
Miss Honeywood, she’s a hamatoor at it, and always 
keeps to the left of the road. Mr. Perrin’s a regular 
shover, and drives bung in the middle. So Miss 
Honeywood, cornin’ along after, didn’t overlay him. 

I heaved a sigh of relief as the light died out of 
Quoyle’s eyes. “It was a lady who drives herself in 
a two-seater,” he told Morry. “We know about her.” 

“There were no other wheelmarks?” 

“None at all.” e „ 

“Thank you, constable. We may want you again. 

Cramp went out. Morry became pensive. 

“I think we must dismiss the hypothesis that 
Perrin was an accomplice. Was Sir Dominic killed 
by someone who boarded the car unknown to Perrin? 
The natural answer would seem to be that Sir Dominic 
must have known if anyone boarded the car, and 
would have alarmed Perrin. I do not think it fol¬ 
lows. Sir Dominic may have been dozing; he was 
tired. Monsieur de Reumont. Could anyone spring 
on to the footboard of a moving car without the 
driver knowing it?” 

“It is possible under certain conditions. 

“Under what conditions?” 

“That the road is bumpy, the person who jumps 
is light, the body of the car heavy, and the springing 

bad.” , , 

“In this case the evidence is that the road was good. 
Would it be possible, if that was so, with the car 
outside?” 


352 


MORRY 


“It would hardly be possible with that car in any 
case. The body is light and the springing excellent.” 

“Could someone have jumped up behind without 
Perrin being aware?” 

Gaston said a light person might do it. 

“Would it be possible to climb from behind on to 
the footboard without the driver knowing?” 

“No. The moment the weight came to one side, the 
driver would feel it in the steering.” 

“That’s right. We arrived at the same conclusions 
by experiment,” observed Quoyle. 

Gaston was amused. “You need not have experi¬ 
mented, my dear sir,” he said with his charming 
smile. “Any capable driver could have told you that 
by examining the car. If I were driving it, I would 
know if anyone moved inside. But a man who got 
on to the footboard-!” 

Words failed him. He shrugged eloquently. 

Morry made a note. 

“It is obvious that if the car was closed, a person 
who jumped up behind must have got on the foot¬ 
board to strike Sir Dominic. There is also the 
question of speed. Mr. Quoyle’s experiment showed 
that the highest speed at which even an acrobat could 
board a car was fourteen miles an hour. Now, if 
this had happened, it must have happened after the 
stop, because there was no one up behind the car 
when the little girl passed it, and no one could have 
boarded it between then and Perrin’s return; he must 
have left footmarks. Where could it happen? Perrin 
says that after he passed the church the speed was 
steady all the way. I can see only one point where 



THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 353 


it could have happened. Bring Perrin back for a 
moment.” 

I did so. 

“Perrin, when you slowed to look round at Sir 
Dominic, how much do you think the speed of the 
car dropped?” 

Perrin considered. “She’d be doin’ all of eighteen.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Quite sure, sir. And about anybody jumpin’ on 
the car, I am wishful to say-—” 

“No one did jump on the car, Perrin. I know 
that.” 

Perrin retired, and Morry said: 

“We must give that up. It is obviously impossible. 
Therefore, no third person intervened, which is 
equivalent to saying that Sir Dominic was not killed 
by direct human agency.” 

“Then how was he killed?” muttered Quoyle. He 
was disappointed; his eyes showed it. Morry seemed 
merely to have arrived by a roundabout road at the 
enigma with which he had been face to face for 
weeks. 

“He was killed by a blow struck mechanically, 
either by an apparatus contrived for the purpose, or 
accidentally. We must go back on our view of 
Perrin for a moment. Recall Sugden.” 

I did so. 

“Mr. Sugden. As to what was in the car when 
you opened the door. Sir Dominic’s body, and his 

ctiplc ” 

“That was all.” 

“Nothing else whatever?” 



354 


MORRY 


“Nothing at all.” ^ 

“You speak as if you were certain of that.” 

“Iam. Ilooked.” 

“When?” 

“After I had sent for the police and questioned 
Perrin.” 

“Was he with you all the time, after the car arrived, 
until you looked in it again?” 

“Yes.” 

“He did not go out of the house meantime, after 
helping you to carry in the body?” 

“No. I kept him by me.” 

“Did he assist you to search the car?” 

“He held the light—an electric hand-lamp he 
brought from the garage.” 

“Now I am going to ask you a very important 
question, and I want you to reflect, before you answer 
it, if you are not sure. Be careful, Mr. Sugden. 
Is it possible that there was something else in the 
car when it arrived, and that Perrin removed it 
without your knowledge?” 

Sugden replied without hesitation: “No.” 

“Did you look in the tool locker?” 

“Yes. I looked everywhere.” 

“Was the car itself examined—the back of it, the 
hood, and so on?” 

“Very carefully.” 

“The hood was in the normal closed position?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thank you.” 

Sugden went out. 

“Let me have a look at that stick,” said Morry. 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 355 


Quoyle laid it on the table. It was a somewhat 
curious stick, with a large round nut, beautifully 
grained, for a top. 

“You know this?” said Morry to Althrop. 

“Indeed I do,” replied Althrop sadly. “My uncle 
was seldom without it.” 

“Hm.” Morry laid it on the table. “Now, the 
last time Sir Dominic was seen alive, he was sit- 
ting- 

A pause. 

“Let me have Perrin back for a moment, Dick. 
I want to get the picture into my head.” 

Perrin came in. 

“Which side of the car was Sir Dominic sitting 
on when you looked round and saw him at Stor- 
borough church?” 

Perrin said neither side. 

“Where was he sitting, then?” „ 

“In the middle, sir. He always did when alone. 

Morry looked at Althrop, and Althrop nodded. 

“That seems curious,” commented Morry. Most 
people, when alone in a car, sit to one side, more 
or less in the angle.” 

Althrop explained that his uncle was not given 
to reclining. He always sat upright in a chair, unless 
he leaned forward with his hands on his stick. 

“Ah.” Morry turned to Perrin. “Between ^there 
and the Towers entrance you passed two traps. 

Perrin assented. 

“How near did you pass them?’’ 

“About three foot of clearance.” 

“Are you sure?” 



356 


MORRY 


“Quite sure, sir. I never passed closer than I need 
with Sir Dominic in the car. He was a bit nervous.” 

“Did you pass anywhere a stationary vehicle—a 
cart left by the roadside for instance?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Did you, anywhere in that stretch, pass close to 
anything?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Would you have known if Sir Dominic had leaned 
out of the window?” 

“I think so. I know when Miss Elena does, if the 
car’s runnin’ smooth.” 

“You see, Perrin, for a man’s neck to be broken 
while he is sitting, he must be struck by something, 
and there must be a cause of the blow. Now, you 
are the only person who can possibly know what it 
was that struck Sir Dominic, or what caused the blow. 
I am aware that you do not know or, at least, you 
don’t think you do. You have been puzzling about 
this, haven’t you?” 

“Indeed I have, sir.” 

“You would help me if you could?” 

“Indeed I would, sir.” 

“Well now, try. Go back into the hall, and sit down 
quietly by yourself. Don’t talk to Mr. Sugden or 
the constable. Go over that stretch of the journey 
in your mind, bit by bit. Think you are back on 
the road again, driving the car. How do you drive, 
as a rule? One hand on the wheel, or both?” 

“Both, generally.” 

“Very well. Shut your eyes and think you have 
your hands on the wheel, and you are going along. 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 357 


Let things come into your mind. Perhaps there will 
be something, some tiny detail of the journey, which 
you haven’t mentioned, to tell me of. Try that for 

99 

me. 

Perrin said he would. 

“Dick, ask Mr. Sugden and the constable to leave 
him to himself, will you?” 

When I returned, Morry had turned on the head¬ 
light. 

“The car travelled steadily along the road. It 
kept to the middle of the road for two miles. Then 
it swung to the right to overtake and pass the trap 
which contained Mr. Blount and his family. ...” 

The headlight failed to reveal anything. But there 
was still a faculty in reserve. Morry’s arms came 
up, the elbows rested on the table, and his head 
drooped until it was supported by the half-closed 
fists. 

His face went utterly blank. At such times I 
seemed to see his intelligence as something white, 
fine, and keen-edged, like the spirit of a sword-blade, 
ranging the infinite that is one. The phenomenon 
always made me cold. 

There was a profound silence in the room. 

Morry spoke. “His neck was broken . . . by a 
blow produced by a mechanical apparatus. No ex¬ 
ternal apparatus operated, and no trace of any in¬ 
ternal apparatus was subsequently noticed. But a 
car is an apparatus, an apparatus for the purpose 
of travel. It was travelling. There was a motive 
force—its movement. That does not suffice alone. 
There must have been something else. . . . 


358 


MORRY 


His voice had been growing faint. It died away. 
The tension in the room mounted. There was some¬ 
thing terrifying in that prodigious effort. 

He came back to earth and raised his head. His 
face was grey and lined, and a muscle in the right 
cheek, beside the nostril, twitched. 

“Something happened which Perrin noticed at the 
time, but which made so little impression on him 
that the shock of the discovery at the Towers obliter¬ 
ated it from his memory. He may now recall it. 
There may be another way of getting at it. Let me 
have Cramp again.” 

Cramp entered. Morry invited him to sit in the 
chair I had left vacant, and made a ghastly attempt 
at his former geniality. 

“I have not done with you yet, you see, constable. 
I want to have a little talk about the tracks of the 
car between the Towers and Storborough church. You 
said in your report that they ran in the middle of the 
road the whole way except where the two traps were 
passed.” 

“That’s right.” 

“Wasn’t there a swerve anywhere?” 

“No. He’s a very good driver, d’ye see, Mr. 
Perrin.” 

“This gentleman here—Monsieur de Reumont— 
explained to me how you could tell where the car 
had stopped—by the marks being blurred.” 

“That’s right.” 

“Were the impressions quite clear everywhere 
else?” 

“Except where somebody had trod on ’em, or the 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 359 


trap-wheels gone over ’em. But there was always 
one or more clear.” 

“The Chief Constable told us how you could tell 
that where the car did stop, it remained for some 
time—by the depth of the marks.” 

“That’s right.” 

“Didn’t the depth of the marks vary elsewhere?” 

“It did.”—We all came to attention.—“There was 
a place—-just one—where the impressions was deep. 
But there was a reason for it.” 

“Where was this?” 

“Near side Storborough church.” 

“And what was the reason?” 

“They’d had the road up ’count of the vicarage 
drain bein’ stopped, and filled in the trench with soil. 
That there rain in the afternoon came down heavy, 
and soaked the soil soft. Consequently the wheels 
went in deep, d’ye see, Sir Maurice?” 

Constable Cramp had been enjoying himself, talk¬ 
ing familiarly with an ex-cabinet minister across the 
corner of a table at which his own chief was sitting, 
as well as an officer high up in the Yard. He was 
rather startled, and so I think were all of us, when 
Morry said in a sharp tone: 

“Go and sit at the other end of the room, next 
to Mr. Althrop, and don’t speak, or move after you 
sit down, until I give you permission.” 

The constable went. He was rather scared. 

“Now, please, everyone,” said Morry in a modi¬ 
fied form of the same tone. “No one moves, or 
speaks. Dick, just go to the door and ask Perrin, 
quietly, to come back for a moment.” 


360 


MORRY 


I went, wondering. 

Perrin came in looking sheepish. 

“Sit down, Perrin,” said Morry smoothly. 

Perrin sat down. 

There was a silence. 

“What was it you forgot to mention?” The silki¬ 
ness of Morry’s voice! 

“Well, Sir Maurice,” said the shame-faced chauf¬ 
feur, “I have remembered somethin’, but it’s such a 
trifle I hardly like to mention it.” 

“Out with it.” 

“We went over a soft place in the road. A drain, 
or somethin’ like that.” 

“Where was it?” 

“At Storborough, by the vicarage gate.” 

“Much of a jolt?” 

“Sharpish.” 

“You did not look round?” 

“No. I thought Sir Dominic was vexed with me 
quite enough before. I half expected he’d call to 
me through the tube to be more careful. But he 
didn’t.” 

“He didn’t, because he was dead,” said Morry 
quietly. 

I thought Morry was mad until Menzies-Brown said 
softly, as though to himself: “Yes, that’s it.” 

Perrin recovered from his bewilderment. “Excuse 
me, Sir Maurice, but he couldn’t have been. I’d seen 
him less than a minute before.” 

“How was he sitting when you saw him?” 

“In a way he often did, lately—leanin’ forward a 
bit.” 


THE SECRET OF THE DUSK 361 


“Show us.” 

Perrin pushed his chair back, and lifted his hands. 
His eyes travelled to the table. 

“You want something?” 

“The stick, if you please, sir.” 

Morry gave him the stick. He rested his hands on 
it, leant forward, let his head drop. 

“That’s as near-” 

“That will do, thank you. No, remain. Dick, 
will you bring in Mrs. Mack and Mr. Sugden?” 

I told Sugden as I passed through the hall. Up¬ 
stairs I found Nesta sitting in silence, Jessie holding 
her hand. She whitened at my summons, and looked 
at me anxiously. I could tell her nothing definite. 

Morry turned his head as she entered. For her 
sake he had wrenched the secret of the dusk out of 
the limbo of unwitnessed traceless happenings; his 
ashen, lined face showed what the effort had cost 
him. Nesta’s glance remained on it; she put out her 
hand in a negative gesture to refuse the chairs offered 
to her—all the men had risen—and so we stood while 
Morry, seated, delivered his finding. 

“I find that the death of Sir Dominic Scaferlati 
was due to an accident. Just after Perrin looked 
round and saw him, he must have dropped his chin 
on his hands for a moment, and in that moment the 
motive force for a concussion was produced by the 
wheels of the car bumping into the trench. It was 
transmitted through the springs and floor to the stick, 
the ball at the top of which was exactly under the 
point of the chin. The hands formed a pad, so there 
was no bruise.” 



CHAPTER XV 


Three of a Kind 

I arrived at Markhamsted at three o’clock on a 
Saturday afternoon. Nesta was out, golfing, so I 
put in a couple of hours with Aunt Betsey. Then I 
strolled down to the village to get an evening paper. 
What I wanted an evening paper for, I don’t know; 
perhaps it was an excuse to take the dogs out. I 
bought one, however, and sauntered back across the 
Common. I saw an emerald jumper coming from the 
golf course. Jumpers were a novelty then in Eng¬ 
land; they came to us from France, and I thought 
this one might contain Nesta, who was usually up 
in French fashions. 

We met. She looked very well, I thought, after 
her couple of months’ fresh air and exercise. I hoped 
she was going to be sensible this time, and stay with 
Aunt Betsey, instead of roving off to some other per¬ 
son’s house. 

“Had a good game?” 

“Pretty fair.” 

She had recovered her nonchalance, too—no, she 
hadn’t; there was a queer look in her eyes, a look of 
resentment. I wondered why. 

We reached the Hall. Nesta went upstairs; I 
joined Aunt Betsey in the summer parlour and read 
my paper. 


362 


THREE OF A KIND 


363 


“San Francisco , Friday. 

“lsola Bella was found dead this morning in her 
room at the Sacramento Hotel. A bottle which had 
contained chloral was by the bedside .” 

I got up, folded the paper, thrust it into my jacket 
pocket. 

“Leave me your newspaper, Richard. I should 
like to look at it.” 

Aunt Betsey had to be obeyed. I complied, but I 
sat down again. I meant to get that paper back— 
burke it. (Why? Don’t be curious.) 

Aunt Betsey put on her spectacles and read the 
paper conscientiously, as old ladies do who live in 
the country. It was her sort of paper—one with 
social news in it. 

“I see Dorchester’s girl is engaged.” 

“Yes, I saw that.” 

“Who is the man—Captain Renton?” 

“A son of Sir Henry Renton, the woollen manu¬ 
facturer.” 

“Oh! She has not done very well, then.”—Com¬ 
mercial baronets were small potatoes in Aunt Betsey’s 
eyes. 

“The young man is in the Guards.” 

“That may be. But the Hibberts are a very old 
family—nearly as old as ours.” 

“All families are old,” I observed sententiously. 

“Nonsense, Richard. You like to talk in that 
democratic way, but you don’t believe in it.” 

“In the Frankfort parliament of 1848, Bismarck 
cheeked the president, a Jew. The president reproved 


364 


MORRY 


him sternly. ‘How dare you speak in that way to 
me?’ demanded young Bismarck: ‘I can trace my 
ancestry back four hundred years.’—‘How dare you 
speak in that way to me?’ retorted the President: ‘I 
can trace my ancestry back to the prophet Aaron.’ ” 

“I like your friend,” replied Aunt Betsey. 

I gazed upon her. Conscious of my gaze, she went 
on reading with perfect serenity—the serenity of an 
ambassador’s widow. 

“Tell, Liz.” 

“Richard, you ought not to address me in that 
disrespectful manner. I have had occasion to reprove 
you for it before.” Aunt Betsey secretly enjoyed 
this piece of impudence; Uncle Henry used to call 
her Liz when he was in a good humour. 

“Tell—go on, do.” 

“Sir Maurice has been at Mirfield several times 
lately visiting his mother. Nesta asked him to call. 
He is a very able man, Richard. He ought to be in 
the service.” 

I clung to my chair. No higher compliment could 
pass Aunt Betsey’s lips. 

A pink georgette evening-frock appeared. Its 
brown hair was done in a most becoming fashion, its 
eyes sparkled, and its complexion was peaches and 
cream. Also it had thin silk stockings on, and very 
smart evening-shoes, silver and pink. 

“Who’s coming to dinner?” 

“Only Duff.” 

Wow-wow. 

“Aren’t you going to dress?” 

“Yes, in a minute.” 


THREE OF A KIND 


365 


“I suppose I must go and be tidied,” said Aunt 
Betsey who had reached the age when old ladies 
cease to dress for dinner. They tidy themselves, 
or are tidied when they are fortunate enough to have 
Marslands. 

Aunt Betsey laid the paper down. I retrieved it 
negligently. 

“Give that to me, Dick. I can look at it until Dulf 
comes.” 

“But I want to look at it myself.” 

“How can you while you are dressing? Don’t be 
selfish. Hand it over.” 

I handed it over. Nesta had to be obeyed when 
she was as pretty as all that. 

I found Morry in the hall. He was wearing a 
span-new dinner-jacket and a shirt with a soft pleated 
front; also his tie was properly tied. 

“You look like a duke.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied Morry 
composedly. He went into the summer parlour. 

Confound that paper! Should I butt in and re¬ 
trieve it? Probably it was safe where it was—like 
dynamite as long as you don’t thump it. 

We dined in the small dining-room. Aunt Betsey 
was gracious, Nesta demure, and Morry serene. 
Generals, admirals, statesmen, and bumptious asses 
who had never done anything except wear stars and 
ribands gazed at him from the walls. Let em, I said 
to myself. Morry did let them. Their eyes discom¬ 
posed him no whit. I thought, however, that his 
eyes roamed occasionally over the ladies those on 
the walls. One of them was quite like Nesta. She 


366 


MORRY 


had been something of a rip—the lady on the wall— 
so tradition said. 

After dinner we went to the billiard room. Morry 
and I played, Nesta and Morry and I played, Nesta 
and Morry played. There were enlightening pas¬ 
sages. 

“Oh, Duff, what a rotten shot!” 

“Yes—nearly as bad as your approach to the four¬ 
teenth green this afternoon.” 

“Well, it was no worse than yours last week. I 
never saw such an utter foozle.” 

“I don’t foozle all my drives on the same after¬ 
noon, anyhow.” 

“Oh, Duff, you are mean! Dick—he was my 
partner in a foursome, a fortnight ago, and, as it 
happened, I simply could not hit a ball that day. It 
was an awful performance, I know; but don’t you 
think he’s mean to keep casting it up at me?” 

“Horribly mean. He always was.” 

Nesta smiled, then suddenly frowned as if some¬ 
thing disagreeable unconnected either with the con¬ 
versation or the game had come to mind. The result 
was that she missed the object ball and left Morry 
with a sitter; he ran out. 

I laughed. 

“You are a pair of brutes. I shan’t play with 
you any more.” 

She wandered off. Morry and I began another 
game. Our game over, we went to look for Nesta, 
and found her in the summer parlour, reading the 
paper. 

Blow that paper! I had forgotten all about it. 


THREE OF A KIND 


367 


‘‘When everybody in the house has finished with 
the paper I went all the way to the village to buy, 

I should like to have a look at it myself.” 

No notice taken. 

“Chuck it over, Cockles. You have had it quite 
long enough.” 

“All right. Just a minute.” 

Her eyes travelled down the page. 

“Oh!” 

She had seen it. She looked at Morry, who was 
smoking a cigarette—quite at home, thank you 
and her eyes were starry. She got up, went to him, 
and showed him the paragraph. 

“I am so sorry, Duff dear.” 

Her arm was round his neck. He put a hand up 
and caressed the hand that dropped on his chest. He 
looked up. 

“It is over for her at last, poor woman. It was 
over for me, long ago.” 

I don’t know what the personal pronoun stood for. 
“Love”? Or “life” in one case and “love” in the 
other? 

“What became of the little girl?” 

“She is at school at Eastbourne. She is well cared 

for.” ui r 

I did not stay to ask who was responsible tor 

Lynette being well cared for. It may have been the 
Court of Chancery. I tiptoed out, closed the door 
noiselessly, and went to bed, the happiest man in 
England. 

They were married at the beginning of the long 


368 


MORRY 


vacation, and went away to see if the world was 
round. When they came back, a surprising thing 
had happened: Morry had come to life. 

To live is to be in a great whispering gallery—or, 
perhaps better to say, in a great telephone exchange 
where one has a seat at the switchboard. There, in 
the course of each day, while carrying on the daily 
business of pulling switches over and pushing them 
back, one hears, not merely what is addressed to 
oneself—requests and demands and protests and com¬ 
plaints—but an endless series of fragments of what 
is passing between others: a business man inviting a 
young fellow to dinner, his wife ordering delicacies 
from the stores, his daughter reproaching the dress¬ 
maker for not having delivered her new dinner-frock. 
The chain on which the scraps are strung is rarely as 
superficially evident as I have made it in the simile; 
we have to contrive our own chains, each for himself 
or herself, in order that we may have a clue to the 
intrinsic value of our own emotions and experiences. 

No doubt Morry began to do this as a boy, although 
as I think to a less extent than most people; he was 
always self-centred; but he ceased to do it after his 
father’s failure in business made it necessary for him 
to carve out a career. Thenceforward he poured him¬ 
self into the race for success as the mill-stream pours 
itself into the mill-race. His soul was left to exist 
as best it could in a vacuum. His real interests were 
all ephemeral. He concentrated on his cases, or on 
the political questions of the hour; as soon as it 
ceased to be necessary to think about that case, or that 
political question, he forgot it utterly until he needed 


THREE OF A KIND 


369 


to recall it. In the same way, with regard to people, 
he would pump them skilfully as to what interested 
him at the time; then they and everything connected 
with their lives passed from his mind until he met 
them again. 

Nesta woke him up. For her sake he tried to be¬ 
come continuously aware of others. One of the fun¬ 
niest things I have ever seen was the way in which 
Morry, when he had resumed his customary avoca¬ 
tions, endeavoured to remember that although Sara 
and Jessie might have put up with his appearing at 
half-past nine when dinner was at eight, Nesta would 
not. As for her—can you picture the daintiest of 
wrens flying at and trying to peck at an eagle, and 
the eagle with a “Yes, my dear. I know. You did 
say so”; expression? But what can a woman do with 
a man who has no idea of time, who would never 
eat anything if someone did not watch him to see that 
he did, who loses gloves, umbrellas, etc., with unfail¬ 
ing regularity? 

Bully him. What else? 

Doubtless, when no one is by, in the end the eagle 
lifts one of his mighty pinions, and the little wren 
creeps under and tucks up warm and comfortable. 
Morry adores Nesta, and Nesta worships Morry, 
though she has no idea of letting him do just as he 
likes in domestic matters—which is very good for 
him. 

God gie ye good-den, friends; in your eventide 
shines the Love-Star. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Epilogue 

When this book was first written, it contained 
merely a reference to the case of John Jafes as an 
experience which had roused my interest in the prac¬ 
tice of the law; nor did it contain passages of a more 
or less personal nature which are now to be found 
in its pages. 

I thought Morry ought to read the manuscript 
before it was submitted to the publisher, in case there 
might be anything in it to the publication of which he 
objected. I sent it to him. 

I heard nothing for a week. Then came a note 
asking me to go down to Buckinghamshire. 

Morry was on the station platform, Nesta in the 
car outside. As soon as we had started off, she said: 
“We have read your book, and we want to talk to 
you about it.” Her tone was hostile. 

I saw that Morry was looking at me in a queer 
way, so I made no reply. 

She left us to our dessert. When we had lighted 
up, Morry began: 

“Am I correct in assuming that your object in 
writing the book was to convey a portrait of me as 
a lawyer?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I am sorry to tell you, my dear fellow, that 
you have made a fundamental error which vitiates 
370 


EPILOGUE 


371 


the picture. You have portrayed me as endowed with 
faculties which are beyond the ordinary.” 

I smiled. 

“As a fact, my natural gifts are not more than on 
a level with your own, taking the highest view of 
them. The difference is that mine apply themselves 
in one way and yours in another. I will prove it to 
you. You have attributed to me the power of recre¬ 
ating a series of events, as they must actually have 
happened, from evidence necessarily in itself incom¬ 
plete. It is a romantic illusion. I possess no such 
power, and you ought to know that I do not.” 

“You aren’t a sharp in psychology, Morry. You 
are only a law sharp.” 

“Quite so. But in this instance I impugn your 
judgment, and I impugn it on the facts. Do you 
remember the Frey murder case?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“As it was the first case in which you assisted me, 
I presume it was the first time you heard me attempt 
to reconstitute events.” 

“Certainly.” 

“Then it must have been on that occasion that you 
invented the term ‘the headlight,’ which you have 
applied in your book to other essays of mine of a 
similar kind.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“But you used the term, Dick, in describing a 
passage in my address to the jury.” 

“Did I?” 


372 


MORRY 


under such circumstances, the faculty of seeing into 
the dark places of the past.” 

“Well?” 

“Was John Jafes guilty?” 

“Of course he was.” 

“Don’t you know that he afterwards received what 
is ironically called a free pardon?” 

“No. Did he?” 

“You never saw it in the newspapers?” 

“No. I went to Russia.” 

“But you must have had newspapers, even in 
Russia.” 

“Yes, of course. I didn’t notice anything about 
the case, that’s all.” 

“You were not sufficiently interested to look for it, 
to be sure as to the end of that poor devil?” 

“I took for granted he was hanged, and deserved 
to be. Why was he pardoned?” 

Morry disregarded my question. “I can’t under¬ 
stand how you could think him guilty.” 

“You proved that he was.” 

“To the satisfaction of the jury, yes; but not to 
yours.” 

“Well, it was a case of circumstantial evidence, 
and in all such cases there is necessarily an element 
of hypothesis. But there was every reasonable pre¬ 
sumption of guilt.” 

Morry laid down his cigar and eyed me keenly. 
“Every reasonable presumption?” 

“Except that the whole of the money wasn’t traced 
to him.” 

“Nothing else?” 


EPILOGUE 


373 


“Not that I remember.” 

Morry said: “Dick, you are an extraordinary fel¬ 
low.” He picked up his cigar, and went out of the 
room. He came back a few minutes later with a 
bundle of papers, and laid one, a triangular scrap, 
in front of me. 

“I found this in my brief-bag while I was return¬ 
ing to London that evening. Do you recognise it?” 

It was my picturesque note. 

“Oh, yes. I wondered what had become of it.” 
“Well?” 

“Well what?” 

Morry stooped—he was standing over me—and 
underlined with his fat forefinger: 

“What was he carrying? Not the hatchet . He 
looks like a varlet carrying a sucking-pig into ye 
baron s hall." 

I puzzled. 

“Don’t you see the bearing of that—the necessary 
inference?” 

I didn’t. 

Morry’s voice became silky, as when he wanted to 
help a witness. “Come, Dick. What might he have 
been carrying in that way—as on a dish? You sug¬ 
gest a sucking-pig. But it is not probable that he 
would carry a sucking-pig out of his cottage in the 
middle of the night. Something not altogether unlike 
a sucking-pig, though. Come, old fellow.” 

I had no glimpse of a notion. 

“You have it here, almost.” Morry pointed to the 
words: 

‘Why did the two women come in mourning?” 


374 


MORRY 


I shook my head. “You’ll have to tell me. I 
have no more idea what he was carrying than I have 
how you know what it was, and I could never guess.” 

“A baby!” cried Morry explosively. “A still-born 
baby!” 

I was bewildered. “Why should he carry a baby 
out of his cottage—especially a dead one?” 

“He was going to bury it, so as to conceal the fact 
that it had been born.” 

“But whose baby was it?” 

“His, and his wife’s sister’s—the pale-faced woman 
who gave evidence—don’t you remember?” 

“I remember her perfectly—Mary Faith. Had she 
had a baby by him, then?” 

“Yes. I worked it out from your note the same 
night. The next day I made the necessary applica¬ 
tion, and went to see him in gaol. I told him I knew 
the truth, and I told him what it was. He admitted 
it, and related exactly how it all happened. The 
baby was born about midnight, dead, and he buried 
the body in the river. He hadn’t been further. The 
reason his clothes were so wet was that it took him 
some time to remove enough stones to hide the tiny 
body and cover it up again.” 

Morry had worked it out from my note! How 
could he? It would be no use to ask him. 

“Who murdered Mrs. Sutlin, then? Did the police 
find out?” 

“Can’t you guess?” 

“Charlie Tessier?” 

“Of course. He was hanged, and serve him right. 
He made a full confession after he was convicted, 



EPILOGUE 


375 


a copy of which was sent to me. I have it here.” 

Morry sat down, and turned over the leaves of a 
bunch of typescript. 

“He married, at the beginning of September, the 
daughter of the house where he had lodged when in 
Bristol. He kept his marriage secret lest it should 
come to his aunt’s knowledge. He knew she would 
resent it. He says that she was of a jealous, domi¬ 
neering disposition, and looked on him as her private 
property. But he had posed as a man of means to 
his landlady in Bristol, and not unnaturally his wife 
was extravagant. He was at his wits’ end for money 
when he went to see his aunt on the twenty-sixth 
of October, and asked her for a loan. She insisted 
on knowing why he needed the money, and he told 
her the truth. She accused him of deceitfulness, told 
him to clear off and never come near her again. He 
went back to Treadwell in despair. 

“It was then or never : his aunt had said explicitly 
that he need expect nothing more from her either 
while she was alive or after she was dead. He 
slipped out of his lodgings secretly about midnight, 
and went on his bicycle through the lanes to the 
ferry. You remember there was a ferry which only 
worked in the daytime? He crossed the river by 
hauling up the chain which served the ferry-boat; 
he contrived to wind it round a post so that it hung 
clear of the water, and worked his way across it—a 
possibility which was overlooked entirely. He went 
by the river-edge, as we supposed Jafes had done, to 
his aunt’s back gate. He knew that it had been 
cleared some weeks before, and that the bolt did not 


376 


MORRY 


hold. He went through the shed to the front door, 
and entered the house that way. He had a water¬ 
proof suit of cycling overalls—trousers with feet, 
like waders, and a jacket with a hood; he took these 
things off in the shed, and left them there until he 
came out. That was how he had no wet clothes next 
morning, and left no traces in the house. 

“On the return journey he had to repass the foot 
of Jafes’ garden, and almost blundered into Jafes in 
the dark. Jafes had just finished burying the baby. 
Tessier, taken by surprise, told Jafes that he had been 
poaching fish, and offered him a couple of sovereigns 
in return for a promise to hold his tongue. Jafes 
accepted the money and went back to his cottage. 
Tessier says that he meant then to bolt—leave the 
country, I suppose. ‘Suddenly it came in my head 
that suspicion was just as likely to fall on Jafes as 
me, after him doing the back gate and being in aunt’s 
bedroom. I thought it over, and I saw the point 
would be, how did he get into the house? He didn’t 
know how to work the latch. So I went back, and 
broke open the kitchen window. Going out I left 
the back gate open on purpose.’ He took precautions, 
when he reached home, as to his bicycle. 

“In the course of the following morning, he re¬ 
flected that the case against Jafes would be more 
damaging if he reversed the order of events as to 
the clearing of the gate and the repairing of the 
window. Later, he made use of the coincidence that 
one of the coins he had given Jafes was an Australian 
sovereign which he had noticed among those he took 
to his aunt a fortnight before.” 


EPILOGUE 


377 


The picture of these two men meeting in the river¬ 
bed, amid the howling of the wind and the thrash¬ 
ing of the rain, enthralled me. The murderer, fresh 
from a scene of horror, stumbling on the man who 
had been hiding a shameful secret! What must have 
been their mutual surprise, suspicion and fears? I 
could imagine Tessier, with his smug self-confidence, 
partially recovering first, inventing an explanation 
that would pass for the moment, offering the bewil¬ 
dered Jafes money. Probably he had to shout to 
make himself heard above the storm. And Jafes, 
taking it with a villager’s grin, putting the rope 
round his neck. But- 

“Jafes must have known, when the police told him 
that Mrs. Sutlin had been murdered, who had done 
it.” 

“Of course he did.” 

“Then why didn’t he say so?” 

“He was afraid of the fact that a baby had been 
born coming to light. When I told him that I should 
inform the authorities he was innocent, he said^If 
zo be as ur’ll be zhamed, zur, oi’d rather bide it. 

What a tangle! Weakness and wicked desperation 
and cunning cowardice and malicious hypocrisy; 
tenacity and furtive sinning and false self-respect and 
chivalrous courage! What a farce the trial had been! 
Judge, jury, barristers, trying conscientiously and 
cleverly to weigh facts which were not facts, baffled 
by the ravel of deceptions and concealments, half- 
truths and truths withheld! I recalled my feeling 
at the time—that the lofty impartiality of the pro¬ 
ceedings made them seem remote from the human 



378 


MORRY 


story as I guessed at it. Was that typical? Were all 
such formal ways of doing things necessarily out of 
relation with the elastic complex of motive and action 
called life, a “system of justice” a misnomer for 
clumsy blundering? 

Yet, in that instance, justice had been done in the 
end because I had happened to make use of my one 
talent. Was the reason things had come right that 
we had all done our best? Was that the answer to 
the problem as to the practice of the law which had 
bothered me then and ever since? 

It did not seem quite the right answer. “Do your 
best” is an excellent maxim for other people, but 
ought a lawyer to do his best for his clients, right or 
wrong? 

And my book? With infinite pains had I striven 
to present the real Morry. He said that the portrait 
was vitiated by exaggerations. Yet I had only put 
down what I had seen. I could not re-make the 
picture differently. Was it all wrong, fit only for the 
fire? 

There came into my mind a sermon preached by 
my father on the text: “A faithful witness shall not 
lie.” He explained that this did not mean merely 
that a faithful witness would tell the truth because he 
was faithful; it meant that the testimony of faithful 
witnesses would eventually establish the truth even 
though a witness might sometimes be mistaken. “Hold 
fast by the truth that is in you,” said my father. 

I would be a faithful witness. My book contained 
the truth about Morry as I knew him. Some revision 
would be necessary. I must include the story of 


EPILOGUE 


379 


John Jafes, and the sequel. But as to the picture of 
Morry, I would not alter it. I said so. 

“But my dear fellow, your own note in the Jafes 
case proves your theory to be wrong.—By the way, 
it was because of it that I invited you to come into 
my chambers when I was in King’s Bench Walk.— 
If either of us is exceptionally endowed-” 

He went on arguing until I shut him up with: 

“You never allow clients to dictate how you should 
present their cases. I’m having a shot at presenting 
your case to the public.” 

We went into the library. Nesta was sitting in 
a specially large armchair. She got up. Morry sat 
down in it. Nesta sat down. She looked at Morry. 
She looked at me, and inquired: 

“Has Duff told you?” 

“Yes.” 

“About us?” 

“You don’t come into it, Cockles dear.” 

“Oh, don’t I!” Nesta was belligerent. “Then he 
hasn’t told you.” 

Morry said: “Nesta, I beg of you-” 

“I shall tell him. Duff. It has been as much as I 
could do ever since we were married to bear the way 
he moodles over us. Look at him now, standing on 
the hearthrug and filling his pipe like a lamp-post. 
The book has finished my patience.” 

“I wish you would not say anything more.” Morry 
looked almost unhappy. 

Nesta disregarded him.—“Now, you! Why do you 
suppose I haven’t been where I am now for years and 
years when I wasn’t?” 



380 


MORRY 


“Because you both behaved like silly asses, 
dearest.” 

“Thank you. Keep your dearests for someone 
else. Do you remember meeting Morry at Red- 
minster, soon after I went to Montpellier?” 

I said that certain circumstances in connection with 
our meeting had just been recalled to my mind. 

“What you told him about me? And what he 
thought?” 

I was mystified. 

“You said something which made him believe you 
were in love with me, and he thereupon effaced him¬ 
self as far as I was concerned. He thought you 
intended sooner or later to throw me your royal hand¬ 
kerchief, and that I was waiting to pick it up.” 

“No, no,” protested Morry. I could just see his 
face, and in his furry eyes there was an expression 
that brought back a forgotten childish ritual: 

“/ take you as my liege lord ... in no wise to 
oppose or hinder your designs . . . .” 

Morry had sacrificed his life’s happiness to me. 

I dropped my pouch, and the tobacco scattered on 
the carpet. It took me some time to pick it up. 

“What have you got to say for yourself?” de¬ 
manded Nesta. 

“Nothing.” 

“There is something to be said for him,” came 
from behind her. “I plead for Dick-” 

“How can you find anything to say for him when 
there isn’t anything, because he says so?” 

“It is my function in life. There is something 
which may fairly be said for everyone. ...” 



EPILOGUE 


381 


That was it! That was the answer to my problem. 
“Even lawyers”—with a chuckle from the depths 
of the armchair. 


Meantime, Jessie’s prophecy had come true. The 
Powers That Were had by no means forgiven Morry 
for interfering with the rickety machinery of their 
policy. They had hunted him into the wilderness, 
and he had lost his seat in Parliament. All sorts of 
spiteful little tricks can be practised by those who 
control a political party; Morry, formerly a popu¬ 
lar speaker up and down the country, ceased to 
receive invitations to speak, and when a knot of 
personal admirers got their way and he did deliver 
an oration, it was never adequately reported except 
in the local paper. Consequently, the public got the 
impression that something had gone wrong with 
Abramson. “He seems to have had the extinguisher 
put on him” was the phrase used to me. 

I don’t think Morry would have cared much if 
Nesta had not stirred him up. He was quite changed 
by that time, and might have been content to devote 
his leisure to her—to take her about in town and for 
trips abroad; to potter round the garden in Bucking¬ 
hamshire, calling flowers by their wrong names and 
talking learnedly about the horses. But Nesta would 
not have it. Duff was something more than a great 
lawyer; he was a great man, and England had got to 
realise that, whether England wanted to or not. So 
Morry plunged back into the hurly-burly, fought by- 
elections and was soundly beaten—which, again, was 


382 


MORRY 


very good for him—and teased Nesta when she 
stamped her little foot and said vitriolic things about 
the stupidity of the electors who hadn’t voted for him. 

He has not yet succeeded in regaining his position 
in the political world as I write, and Nesta some¬ 
times grumbles, womanlike, because between law and 
politics she gets very little of his company in term 
time. “If I want to see my husband I have to go and 
sit in a stuffy law-court or stuffier public hall unless 
he’s in his pyjamas,” was one of her characteristic- 
ally-muddled utterances. But Morry will succeed— 
perhaps before you read. 

There is a prejudice against the lawyer-politician 
which arises out of the belief that as a politician 
he is merely a lawyer with a party for his client. 
Morry has suffered from this prejudice; it happens 
to be specially unfair to him, because he always 
takes wide views; as a politician, he is a lawyer with 
everybody for his client. It was for that very reason 
that I used to think his speeches lacked punch. In 
the whirlpool—or ought one to say the whirligig?— 
of politics in the last eight years I have come to the 
conclusion that he stands, as no one else does, for the 
people of England as a whole. Most politicians put 
forward a similar claim, but in the same breath, or 
the next, one finds them advocating class-policies 
thinly disguised or naked in their narrowness; for 
Morry the claim is valid. He has neither religious 
nor class prejudice, and his intellect is too keen to 
be deceived, or to deceive itself, with sophistries. 

Moreover, he possesses in an unusually high degree 
the mental qualities which enable so many lawyers 


EPILOGUE 


383 


to attain high political positions despite the popular 
distrust to which I have alluded—the faculty for 
missing none of the aspects of a problem and rightly 
estimating their relative importance, and the gift for 
finding a solution in which due allowance is made 
for each. This is the basic quality of statesmanship. 
If Morry perseveres in the dog-fight, he will regain 
his place; he may do more. 

My early experiences with Morry in his profes¬ 
sional work led me to the conclusion that his conduct 
was governed by an instinct for justice; since, I have 
come to see that the same instinct has always governed 
him in politics. It led him to work in with his party 
as long as that seemed to be the best way to attain 
his aims; it drove him to stand on one side when 
his leaders committed themselves to a policy which, 
as he thought, was unfair to a majority of the in¬ 
habitants of this country; it forced him to give them 
battle when they laid hands on his Ark of the Coven¬ 
ant. If England comes to need a man in whom this 
sense of ideal justice is profoundly rooted, who will 
stand for it as Abraham Lincoln stood for the higher 
legality when Secessionists threatened the Union, a 
man no whit inferior to Lincoln in personal integrity 
and moral courage, and—I say it deliberately—a 
man surpassing any of his contemporaries in intel¬ 
lectual power, she can find such a man in Maurice 
Abramson. 


THE END 


















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